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of his fingers, firmly fashioned and throwing out at its swiftest well nigh incredible felicities of phrase.
The only difficulty, perhaps, was to find an envelope that would contain the bulky product, or any reason, when two sheets were blackened, for not filling a third. Truly, Lamb House was no sanctuary, but rather a "small, crammed and wholly unlucrative hotel," and the hermit no meagre solitary but a tough and even stoical man of the world, English in his humour, Johnsonian in his sanity, who lived every second with insatiable gusto and in the flux and fury of his impressions obeyed his own injunction to remain "as solid and fixed and dense as you can." For to be as subtle as Henry James one must also be as robust; to enjoy his power of exquisite selection one must have "lived and loved and cursed and floundered and enjoyed and suffered," and, with the appetite of a giant, have swallowed the whole.
Yet, if he shared with magnanimity, if he enjoyed hugely, there remained something incommunicable, something reserved, as if in the last resort, it was not to us that he turned, nor from us that he received, nor into our hands that he placed his offerings. There they stand, the many books, products of "an inexhaustible sensibility," all with the finyilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablfgp