At last I got rid of every bit of the grand style, the old church.
I came to the pure sensation without a thought in my head.
Just a harp in the wind. And a lot of my stuff was good. Purest
go-as-you-please.
And I sold it too. I made more money then than I ever did again.
People like impressionism. Still do, because it hasn't any idea
in it. Because it doesn't ask anything from them—because
it's just a nice sensation, a little song. Good for the drawing-room.
Teacakes.
But I got tired of sugar. I grew up.
And when they showed me a room full of my own confections, I felt
quite sick. Like grandpa brought to a nursery tea. As for icing
any more eclairs, I couldn't bring myself to it. I gradually stopped
painting and took to arguing instead. Arguing and reading and drinking;
politics, philosophy and pub-crawling; all the things chaps do who
can't do anything else. Who've run up against the buffers. And I got
in such a low state that I was frightened of the dark. Yes, as every
night approached, I fairly trembled. I knew what it would be like.
A vacuum sucking one's skull into a black glass bottle; all in silence.
I used to go out and get drunk, to keep some kind of illumination going
in my dome.