In a story by Henry James, I think "The Middle Years", his character, a writer in the shadows of maturity, laments, "We live in the dark, we do what we can, the rest is the madness of art." Or words to that effect. Anyway, Mr. James is laying it on the line there; he's telling us the truth. And the darkest part of the dark, the maddest part of the maddest, is the relentless gambling involved. Writers, at least those who take genuine risks, who are willing to bite the bullet and walk the plank, have a lot in common with another breed of lonely men - the guys who make a living shooting pool and dealing cards.
- from "Preface to Music for Chameleons" by Truman Capote
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