Not That it Matters 

The Pleasure of Writing 

Sometimes when the printer is waiting for an article which really
should have been sent to him the day before, I sit at my desk and
wonder if there is any possible subject in the whole world upon
which I can possibly find anything to say.  On one such occasion I
left it to Fate, which decided, by means of a dictionary opened
at random, that I should deliver myself of a few thoughts about
goldfish.  (You will find this article later on in the book.) But
to-day I do not need to bother about a subject.  To-day I am
without a care.  Nothing less has happened than that I have a new
nib in my pen. 

In the ordinary way, when Shakespeare writes a tragedy, or Mr.
Blank gives you one of his charming little essays, a certain
amount of thought goes on before pen is put to paper.  One cannot
write "Scene I.  An Open Place.  Thunder and Lightning.  Enter Three