There's a great chunk of life that I've never known, and I want to know it, I ought to know if I'm to become a really fine writer. There's the greatest thing perhaps in the world, and I've missed it - that's what's so awful, Puddle, to know that it exists everywhere, all round me, to be constantly near it yet constantly held back - to feel that the poorest people in the streets, the most ignorant people, know more than I do. And I dare to take up my pen and write, knowing less than those poor men and women in the street! Why haven't I got a right to it, Puddle? Can't you understand that I'm strong and young, so that sometimes that thing that I'm missing torments me, so I can't concentrate on my work any more?