For posterity?

Thursday, January 28th., Victoria Grove, London.

I cannot conceive that any author should write, as the de Goncourts say they wrote, 'for posterity'.  An artist works only to satisfy himself, and for the applause and appreciation neither of his fellows alive nor his fellows yet unborn. To assume that what you write may be of significance in the future (never mind the present) is surely the height of arrogance. Even if you think it, it strikes me as a failure of taste to say it.

I would not care a bilberry for posterity. I should be my own justest judge, from whom there would be no appeal; and having satisfied him (whether he was right or wrong) I should be content - as an artist. As a man, I should be disgusted if I could not earn plenty of money and the praise of the discriminating. Of course I can say these things with equanimity at the age of thirty, but will I look back on these journal entries in thirty years time and say, "How naive he was"?

I have not been able to get down to any serious work since I finished my little book on journalism for women. Partly a sort of reaction. Partly because I am busy at Woman. Partly because of this place which is inadequate for my purpose. Soon I will be moving to my new home at Fulham Park Gardens where the atmosphere will be more conducive to creativity. During these recent weeks of indolence in the matter of creative work I can feel, with a sense of satisfaction, the tide of unexpressed sensation rising higher and higher; soon I know It will break the dam of inactive habit which circumstances and a somewhat weak purpose have erected, and pour forth over a thousand sheets. It grows and rises of itself and I watch it lazily.