Direction: All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very (91) of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long (92) of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not (93) by some demon whom one can neither (94) nor understand. For all one knows that demon. is simply the same (95) that makes a baby (96) for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to (97) one’s own personality. Good prose is like a window pane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And (98) through my work, I see that it is (99) where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was (100) into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.