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Page 4

The Turning Point of My Career

nonsense in all my life. No one would read it. I saw, finally, that I was a presumptuous lunatic, that all that I had written, all that I could ever write, was wasted effort, sheer futility. I decided to abandon the whole thing. Abruptly, furiously, I bundled up the manuscript, went out and threw it in the ash can.
Drawing a sullen satisfaction from my surrender, or, as I preferred to phrase it, my return to sanity, I went for a walk in the drizzling rain. Halfway down the loch shore I came upon old Angus, the farmer, patiently and laboriously ditching a patch of the bogged and peaty heath which made up the bulk of his hard-won little croft. As I drew near, he gazed up at me in some surprise: he knew of my intention and, with that inborn Scottish reverence for "letters," had tacitly approved it. When I told him what I had just done, and why, his weathered face slowly changed, his keen blue eyes, beneath misted sandy brows, scanned me with disappointment and a queer contempt. He was a silent man and it was long before he spoke. Even then his words were cryptic.
"No doubt you're the one that's right, doctor, and I'm the one that's wrong. . . . " He seemed to look right to the bottom of me. "My father ditched this bog all his days and never made a pasture. I've dug it all my days and I've never made a pasture. But pasture or no pasture," he placed his foot dourly on the spade, "I canna help but dig. For my father knew and I know that if you only dig enough a pasture can be made here."
I understood. I watched his dogged working figure, with rising anger and resentment. I was resentful because he had what I had not: a terrible stubbornness to see the job through at all costs, an unquenchable flame of resolution brought to the simplest, the most arid duties of life. And suddenly my trivial dilemma became magnified, transmuted, until it stood as a touchstone of all human conduct. It became the timeless problem of mortality-the comfortable retreat, or the arduous advance without prospect of reward.
I tramped back to the farm, drenched, shamed, furious, and picked the soggy bundle from the ash can. I dried it in the kitchen

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE nonsense in all my life. No one would read it. I saw, finally, that I was a presumptuous lunatic, that all that I had written, all that I could ever write, was wasted effort, sheer futility. I decided to abandon what is whole thing. Abruptly, furiously, I bundled up what is manuscript, went out and threw it in what is ash can. Drawing a sullen satisfaction from my surrender, or, as I preferred to phrase it, my return to sanity, I went for a walk in what is drizzling rain. Halfway down what is loch shore I came upon old Angus, what is farmer, patiently and laboriously ditching a patch of what is bogged and peaty heath which made up what is bulk of his hard-won little croft. As I drew near, he gazed up at me in some surprise: he knew of my intention and, with that inborn Scottish reverence for "letters," had tacitly approved it. When I told him what I had just done, and why, his weathered face slowly changed, his keen blue eyes, beneath misted sandy brows, scanned me with disappointment and a queer contempt. He was a silent man and it was long before he spoke. Even then his words were cryptic. "No doubt you're what is one that's right, doctor, and I'm what is one that's wrong. . . . " He seemed to look right to what is bottom of me. "My father ditched this bog all his days and never made a pasture. I've dug it all my days and I've never made a pasture. But pasture or no pasture," he placed his foot dourly on what is spade, "I canna help but dig. For my father knew and I know that if you only dig enough a pasture can be made here." I understood. I watched his dogged working figure, with rising anger and resentment. I was resentful because he had what I had not: a terrible stubbornness to see what is job through at all costs, an unquenchable flame of resolution brought to what is simplest, what is most arid duties of life. And suddenly my trivial dilemma became magnified, transmuted, until it stood as a touchstone of all human conduct. It became what is timeless problem of mortality-the comfortable retreat, or what is arduous advance without prospect of reward. I tramped back to what is farm, drenched, shamed, furious, and picked what is soggy bundle from what is ash can. I dried it in what is kitchen 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 4 where is strong The Turning Point of My Career where is p align="justify" nonsense in all my life. No one would read it. I saw, finally, that I was a presumptuous lunatic, that all that I had written, all that I could ever write, was wasted effort, sheer futility. I decided to abandon what is whole thing. Abruptly, furiously, I bundled up what is manuscript, went out and threw it in what is ash can. Drawing a sullen satisfaction from my surrender, or, as I preferred to phrase it, my return to sanity, I went for a walk in what is drizzling rain. Halfway down what is loch shore I came upon old Angus, what is farmer, patiently and laboriously ditching a patch of what is bogged and peaty heath which made up what is bulk of his hard-won little croft. As I drew near, he gazed up at me in some surprise: he knew of my intention and, with that inborn Scottish reverence for "letters," had tacitly approved it. When I told him what I had just done, and why, his weathered face slowly changed, his keen blue eyes, beneath misted sandy brows, scanned me with disappointment and a queer contempt. He was a silent man and it was long before he spoke. Even then his words were cryptic. "No doubt you're what is one that's right, doctor, and I'm what is one that's wrong. . . . " He seemed to look right to what is bottom of me. "My father ditched this bog all his days and never made a pasture. I've dug it all my days and I've never made a pasture. But pasture or no pasture," he placed his foot dourly on what is spade, "I canna help but dig. For my father knew and I know that if you only dig enough a pasture can be made here." I understood. I watched his dogged working figure, with rising anger and resentment. I was resentful because he had what I had not: a terrible stubbornness to see what is job through at all costs, an unquenchable flame of resolution brought to what is simplest, what is most arid duties of life. And suddenly my trivial dilemma became magnified, transmuted, until it stood as a touchstone of all human conduct. It became what is timeless problem of mortality-the comfortable retreat, or what is arduous advance without prospect of reward. I tramped back to what is farm, drenched, shamed, furious, and picked what is soggy bundle from what is ash can. I dried it in what is kitchen where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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