Wherein lies its charm [the charm of writing]? Mainly, I believe, in arranging words in patterns, as if they were bricks, or flowers, or lumps of paint. ... I cannot invent good stories, or care what becomes of the people of whom I write. ... My people are retiring, elusive, apt not to come even when I require them. I do not blame them. ... To be regarded as of less importance than the etymology and development of the meanest word in the dictionary, must be galling.
And so we come to words, those precious gems of queer shapes and gay colours, sharp angles and soft contours, shades of meaning laid one over the other down history, so that for those far back one must delve among the lost and lovely litter that strews the centuries. ... They arrange themselves in the most elegant odd patterns; they sound the strangest sweet euphonious notes; they flute and sing and taber, and disappear, like apparitions, with a curious perfume and a most melodious twang. ... this is the pleasure of writing. It is this, rather than concern with relating of human beings, which can hold me thralled through a night.