Another day so full of promise for the fact that I’ve put in the work to make it so. One draws confidence most from work others never see—work done which is implicit in each public achievement. The day is full of promise because I yet have all my greatest achievements before me, with skill enough earned through grinding labour to make manifest visions of necessary objects not yet in existence.
Hours of thankless work go in to the art which lasts for centuries, which goes on living even though the artist has passed away—such work which seems to take on a life of its own for the little -appreciated or -acknowledged fact that the artist gave his or her life to it. But to begin, for a debut, something simple is called for: a work which is sharp and true in its aim, with no superfluous movement to detract from its purpose. A tale which the artist in his single-minded attack makes clear needed to be told, full of consequence despite its brevity, and hitting a target others hadn’t seen. A work of genius, in short, yet modest in its choice of subject.