The Joys of Writing
溫斯頓·丘吉爾 / Winston Churchill
The fortunate people in the world—the only really fortunate people in the world， in my mind， —are those whose work is also their pleasure. The class is not a large one， not nearly so large as it is often represented to be； and authors are perhaps one of the most important elements in its composition. They enjoy in this respect at least a real harmony of life. To my mind， to be able to make your work your pleasure is the one class distinction in the world worth striving for； and I do not wonder that others are inclined to envy those happy human beings who f？ind their livelihood in the gay effusions of their fancy， to whom every hour of labor is an hour of enjoyment to whom repose—however necessary—is a tiresome interlude， and even a holiday is almost deprivation. Whether a man writes well or ill， has much to say or little， if he cares about writing at all， he will appreciate the pleasures of composition. To sit at one table on a sunny morning， with four clear hours of uninterruptible security， plenty of nice white paper， and a Squeezer pen—that is true happiness. The complete absorption of the mind upon an agreeable occupation—what more is there than to desire？ What does it matter what happens outside？ The House of Commons may do what it like， and so may the House of Lords. The heathen may rage furiously in every part of the globe. The bottom may be knocked clean out of the American market. Consols may fall and suffragettes may rise. Never mind， for four hours， at any rate， we will withdraw ourselves from a common-ill-governed， and disorderly world， and with the key of fancy unlock that cupboard where all the good things of the inf？inite are put away.
And speaking of freedom is not the author free， as few men are free？ Is he not secure， as few men are secure？ The tools of his industry are so common and so cheap that they have almost ceased to have commercial value. He needs no bulky pile of raw material， no elaborate apparatus， no service of men or animals. He is dependent for his occupation upon no one but himself， and nothing outside him that matters. He is the sovereign of an empire， self-supporting， self-contained. No one can sequestrate his estates. No one can deprive him of his stock in trade； no one can force him to exercise his faculty against his will； no one can prevent him exercising it as he chooses. The pen is the great liberator of men and nations. No chains can bind， no poverty can choke， no tariff can restrict the free play of his mind， and even the “Times Book Club” can only exert a moderately depressing inf？luence upon his rewards. Whether his work is good or bad， so long as he does his best he is happy. I often fortify myself amid the uncertainties and vexations of political life by believing that I possess a line of retreat into a peaceful and fertile country where no rascal can pursue and where one need never be dull or idle or ever wholly without power. It is then， indeed， that I feel devoutly thankful to have been born fond of writing. It is then， indeed， that I feel grateful to all the brave and generous spirits who， in every age and in every land， have fought to establish the now unquestioned freedom of the pen.