“I wouldn't trade places with him if he had fifty years of life before him. And yet his work stands out from the ruck of the contemporary versifiers as a balas ruby among carrots. And the reviews he gets! Damn them, all of them, the crass manikins!» «Too much is written by the men who can't write about the men who do write,» Martin concurred.
«Why, I was appalled at the quantities of rubbish written about Stevenson and his work.»
«Ghouls and harpies!» Brissenden snapped out with clicking teeth. «Yes, I know the spawn—complacently pecking at him for his Father Damien letter, analyzing him, weighing him—»”