George Sylvester Viereck

“ He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers. “Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you.”
His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did not yield. “You love me now—you did not love me then. The music of your words was cold—machine- made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every image but its own. ”

“ Against thieves one can protect oneself.” He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more than a dream? God! His lips quivered. ”

“ No, I tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an artist.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?”
“Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem.”
“That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big? Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?” ”