The House of the Vampire

uman animal. The inter-play of his mental forces gave him the sensuous satisfaction of a w

tayed the flight of his imagination. Magazines were waiting for his copy, and

its of gruesome tenderness. The thread of his own life intertwined with the thread of the story. All genuine art is autobiography. It is not, however, necessarily a revelation of the artist's actual self, but of a myriad

icts it in glowing words. The things he writes are as real to him as the things that he lives. But in his realm the poet is supreme. His hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains king. Woe to him

him again, and he strung pearl on pearl, line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. Even to

ttle chance to speak to him. And to drop even a hint of his pla

, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper would de

o take a long walk in the solitude of the Palisa

tle response. Reginald's face was wan and bore the

ly busy?" Ernest asked

I am restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace unt

aging your mind, the epic

nd had in some way destroyed the web of my thought. Poetry in the writing is like red hot glass before the master-blower has fashioned it into birds and trees and strange fantastic sha

e in store for us. It seems to me you have reached a

unshine. I will confess that my conception is unique. It combines

l responded to Reginald's touch as a harp to the winds

the gods are propitious," he remarked, "I shall complete it to-night.

n the position soon t

ent-mindedly. The egotism of the artis