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The Turning Point of My Career

discarded them all. While I worked all day and half of most nights, I really lacked perseverance, stability.
One day I developed indigestion. After resisting my wife's entreaties for several weeks I went to consult a friendly colleague. I expected a bottle of bismuth and an invitation to bridge. I received instead the shock of my life: a sentence to six months' complete rest in the country on a milk diet. I had a gastric ulcer.
The place of exile, chosen after excruciating contention, was a small farmhouse near the village of Tarbert in the Scottish Highlands. Imagine a lonely whitewashed steading set on a rain-drenched loch amid ferocious mountains rising into gray mist, with longhorned cattle, like elders of the kirk, sternly munching thistles in the foreground. That was Fyne Farm. Conceive of a harassed stranger in city clothes arriving with a pain in his middle and a box of peptonizing powders in his suitcase. That was I.
Nothing is more agonizing to the active man than enforced idleness. A week of Fyne Farm drove me crazy. Debarred from all physical pursuits, I was reduced to feeding the chickens and learning to greet the disapproving cattle by their Christian names. Casting round desperately for something to do, I had a sudden idea. For years I had nursed the vague illusion that I might write. Often, indeed, I had remarked to my wife: "You know, I believe I could write a novel if I had time," at which she would smile kindly across her knitting, murmur, "Do you, dear?" and tactfully lead me back to talk of Johnnie Smith's whooping cough.
Now, as I stood on the shore of that desolate Highland loch I raised my voice in a surge of self-justification: "By Heavens! This is my opportunity. Gastric ulcer or no gastric ulcer, I will write a novel." Before I could change my mind I walked straight to the village and bought myself two dozen penny exercise books.
Upstairs in my cold, clean bedroom was a scrubbed deal table and a very hard chair. Next morning I found myself in this chair, facing a new exercise book open upon the table, slowly becoming aware that, short of dog Latin prescriptions, I had never composed a

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE discarded them all. While I worked all day and half of most nights, I really lacked perseverance, stability. One day I developed indigestion. After resisting my wife's entreaties for several weeks I went to consult a friendly colleague. I expected a bottle of bismuth and an invitation to bridge. I received instead what is shock of my life: a sentence to six months' complete rest in what is country on a milk diet. I had a gastric ulcer. what is place of exile, chosen after excruciating contention, was a small farmhouse near what is village of Tarbert in what is Scottish Highlands. Imagine a lonely whitewashed steading set on a rain-drenched loch amid ferocious mountains rising into gray mist, with longhorned cattle, like elders of what is kirk, sternly munching thistles in what is foreground. That was Fyne Farm. Conceive of a harassed stranger in city clothes arriving with a pain in his middle and a box of peptonizing powders in his suitcase. That was I. Nothing is more agonizing to what is active man than enforced idleness. A week of Fyne Farm drove me crazy. Debarred from all physical pursuits, I was reduced to feeding what is chickens and learning to greet what is disapproving cattle by their Christian names. Casting round desperately for something to do, I had a sudden idea. For years I had nursed what is vague illusion that I might write. Often, indeed, I had remarked to my wife: "You know, I believe I could write a novel if I had time," at which she would smile kindly across her knitting, murmur, "Do you, dear?" and tactfully lead me back to talk of Johnnie Smith's whooping cough. Now, as I stood on what is shore of that desolate Highland loch I raised my voice in a surge of self-justification: "By Heavens! This is my opportunity. Gastric ulcer or no gastric ulcer, I will write a novel." Before I could change my mind I walked straight to what is village and bought myself two dozen penny exercise books. Upstairs in my cold, clean bedroom was a scrubbed deal table and a very hard chair. Next morning I found myself in this chair, facing a new exercise book open upon what is table, slowly becoming aware that, short of dog Latin prescriptions, I had never composed a where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Getting what is Most Out Of Life (1948) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 2 where is strong The Turning Point of My Career where is p align="justify" discarded them all. While I worked all day and half of most nights, I really lacked perseverance, stability. One day I developed indigestion. After resisting my wife's entreaties for several weeks I went to consult a friendly colleague. I expected a bottle of bismuth and an invitation to bridge. I received instead what is shock of my life: a sentence to six months' complete rest in what is country on a milk diet. I had a gastric ulcer. what is place of exile, chosen after excruciating contention, was a small farmhouse near what is village of Tarbert in what is Scottish Highlands. Imagine a lonely whitewashed steading set on a rain-drenched loch amid ferocious mountains rising into gray mist, with longhorned cattle, like elders of what is kirk, sternly munching thistles in what is foreground. That was Fyne Farm. Conceive of a harassed stranger in city clothes arriving with a pain in his middle and a box of peptonizing powders in his suitcase. That was I. Nothing is more agonizing to what is active man than enforced idleness. A week of Fyne Farm drove me crazy. Debarred from all physical pursuits, I was reduced to feeding what is chickens and learning to greet what is disapproving cattle by their Christian names. Casting round desperately for something to do, I had a sudden idea. For years I had nursed what is vague illusion that I might write. Often, indeed, I had remarked to my wife: "You know, I believe I could write a novel if I had time," at which she would smile kindly across her knitting, murmur, "Do you, dear?" and tactfully lead me back to talk of Johnnie Smith's whooping cough. Now, as I stood on what is shore of that desolate Highland loch I raised my voice in a surge of self-justification: "By Heavens! This is my opportunity. Gastric ulcer or no gastric ulcer, I will write a novel." Before I could change my mind I walked straight to what is village and bought myself two dozen penny exercise books. Upstairs in my cold, clean bedroom was a scrubbed deal table and a very hard chair. Next morning I found myself in this chair, facing a new exercise book open upon what is table, slowly becoming aware that, short of dog Latin prescriptions, I had never composed a where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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