DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.51521#0017
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ment scraped out his morning’s work. “I am afraid I did
not sit as well as usual.” “You sat well enough, but some-
thing has disturbed you.” “I shall be more like myself
to-morrow.” “Then, to-morrow.”
In the Boule Noire, whither I went for breakfast, I
read Joe’s letter carefully from end to end and it did not
seem on the second reading so terrible as it had on the
first, and whilst I drank my coffee I sought his reasons
for writing a letter which he must have known would
frighten me. We are all part and parcel of our environ-
ment. Manet would not paint the same portraits in
Ireland that he paints in Paris, and I could not write
A Modern Lover, as Lewis Seymour and Some Women
was then called, in Mayo. The Boule Noire, the Nouvelle
Athenes and the Rue de la Tour des Dames are part of my
inspiration and were I to go to Moore Hall I should have
to live without my library of Parnassian poets, volumes
signed by all the young men in Montmartre and the
Quartier Latin. At Moore Hall I should feel as Adam did
when he was turned out of Paradise.
“Garmon, un verre de Cognac.” An inspiring liqueur, I
said, and after the first glass I bethought myself of writ-
ing to Joe that I was half-way through A Modern Lover
and that an American publisher who had gotten news of
my book through the newspapers had offered me a con-
tract and was willing to pay five hundred pounds in
advance of royalties, but I was holding out for a thousand,
ment scraped out his morning’s work. “I am afraid I did
not sit as well as usual.” “You sat well enough, but some-
thing has disturbed you.” “I shall be more like myself
to-morrow.” “Then, to-morrow.”
In the Boule Noire, whither I went for breakfast, I
read Joe’s letter carefully from end to end and it did not
seem on the second reading so terrible as it had on the
first, and whilst I drank my coffee I sought his reasons
for writing a letter which he must have known would
frighten me. We are all part and parcel of our environ-
ment. Manet would not paint the same portraits in
Ireland that he paints in Paris, and I could not write
A Modern Lover, as Lewis Seymour and Some Women
was then called, in Mayo. The Boule Noire, the Nouvelle
Athenes and the Rue de la Tour des Dames are part of my
inspiration and were I to go to Moore Hall I should have
to live without my library of Parnassian poets, volumes
signed by all the young men in Montmartre and the
Quartier Latin. At Moore Hall I should feel as Adam did
when he was turned out of Paradise.
“Garmon, un verre de Cognac.” An inspiring liqueur, I
said, and after the first glass I bethought myself of writ-
ing to Joe that I was half-way through A Modern Lover
and that an American publisher who had gotten news of
my book through the newspapers had offered me a con-
tract and was willing to pay five hundred pounds in
advance of royalties, but I was holding out for a thousand,