I have been asked, possibly a thousand times, whether I looked upon
that little book as in any sense the result of inspiration, whether
what is called spiritualistic, or of any other sort. I have always
promptly said "No," to this question. Yet sometimes I wonder if that
convenient monosyllable in deed and truth covers the whole case.
When I remember just how the book came to be, perceive the
consequences of its being, and recall the complete unconsciousness of
the young author as to their probable nature, there are moments when I
am fain to answer the question by asking another: "What do we mean by
inspiration?"
That book grew so naturally, it was so inevitable, it was so
unpremeditated, it came so plainly from that something not one's self
which makes for uses in which one's self is extinguished, that there
are times when it seems to me as if I had no more to do with the
writing of it than the bough through which the wind cries, or the wave
by means of which the tide rises.
The angel said unto me "Write!" and I wrote.
It is impossible to remember how or when the idea of the book first
visited me. Its publication bears the date of 1869. My impressions are
that it may have been towards the close of 1864 that the work began;
for there was work in it, more than its imperfect and youthful
character might lead one ignorant of the art of book-making to
suppose.
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