There was only a hum, a rush, a roar, as car
after car swept on.
Summer homes nestled among the trees near the lake.
Through the branches one caught occasional gleams of
silvery water. The rush of cool air fanned my hot
forehead, tousled my hair, slid down between my collar
and the back of my neck, and I was grandly content.
"Even though you are going to sail away, and even
though you have the grumps, and refuse to talk, and scowl
like a jabberwock, this is an extremely nice world. You
can't spoil it."
"Behute!" Von Gerhard's tone was solemn.
"Would you be faintly interested in knowing that the
book is finished?"
"So? That is well. You were wearing yourself thin
over it. It was then quickly perfected."
"Perfected!" I groaned. "I turn cold when I think of
it. The last chapters got away from me completely. They
lacked the punch."
Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly
had intended that he should. Then--"The punch? What is
that then--the punch?"
Obligingly I elucidated. "A book may be written in
flawless style, with a plot, and a climax, and a lot of
little side surprises. But if it lacks that peculiar and
convincing quality poetically known as the punch, it might
as well never have been written.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248