"<p>It is not worth picking up a pen, it is not worth putting a drop of ink to paper, it is not worth wasting a quarter of an hour of your life writing something that will please the masses and the semi-literate, that will make them exclaim, "Oh! Yes! We thought so too!..." - for which you will be awarded a medal by the official world, paid a lot of money by some literary establishment, and with the money you can build a nice house, which you can then fill with rare objects and noble furniture! Because what pleases them, the masses, is always a misunderstanding on their part, or a betrayal on your part. Gold smoke, a child's plaything, is what is a medal. And all the money thou canst get for work that pleases the world, the fine house thou canst build with that money, all this is but mist, the breath of the world's powers will one day blow it away. Take no heed but the voice of the angel that cries to you when he calls you to your work.</p>"