"That devastating omniscience! That noxious, horn-spectacled refinement! and the money that such refinement means! For after all, what is there behind it, except money? Money for the right kind of education, money for influential friends, money for leisure and peace of mind, money for trips to Italy. Money writes books, money sells them. Give me no righteousness, O Lord, give me money, only money.
He jingled the coins in his pocket. He was thirty and had accomplished nearly nothing; only his miserable book of poems that had fallen flatter than a pancake. And ever since, for two whole years, he had been struggling in the labyrinth of a dreadful book that never got any further, and which, as he knew in his moments of clarity, never would get any furher. It was the lack of money, simply the lack of money, that robbed him of the power to 'write'. He clung to that as to an article of faith. Money, money, all is money! Could you write even a penny novelette without money to put heart in you? Invention, energy, wit, style, charm - they've all got to be paid for in hard cash."
George Orwell, Keep the Apidistra Flying
Orwell, things are getting serious here. Stop being that good.
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