You are young. So you know everything. You leap into the boat and begin rowing. But listen to me. Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me. Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks--when you hear that unmistakable pounding--when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming--then row, row for your life toward it.

In the mid-1940s Life magazine had proposed a series of photographic essays, to be composed of Waugh novel excerpts accompanied by pictures. It wasn't until several months into the project, however, that it occurred to the magazine to contact the author. The task of gaining Waugh's permission fell to a researcher in London. In a letter seeking Waugh's cooperation, she described the project's scope as "monumental," but Waugh didn't see it quite the same way. Dear Madam,

I have read your letter of yesterday with curiosity and re-read it with compassion. I am afraid you are unfamiliar with the laws of my country. The situation is not that my cooperation is desirable, but that my permission is necessary, before you publish a series of photographs illustrating my books. I cannot find any phrase in your letter that can be construed as seeking permission.

You say: "without consulting you the project will be like blind flying." I assure you that it will be far more hazardous. I shall send a big blue incorruptible policeman to lock you up and the only "monumental" work [your staff] is likely to perform is breaking stones at Dartmoor (our Zing Zing).

Yours faithfully,

Evelyn Waugh

Learn to bear pain.

It’s the shortest path to silence From there you will rise again To taste passion’s fruit.

Pray not to make this season short, Its length is not measured in time But the depth to which the plow has to go.

Have the seed ready at hand And be willing to fall down on your knees To pull out of the soil, overgrown weeds.

This is necessary work, not as much as resisting Nature massing at the edge of your clearing As letting the spring sun shine equally on the husks.

So even if you make to depart or escape Into wine or the woods, nothing would stop you. The land will continue to wait, with it’s secret of bread

For you to harvest and break, From the necessary good crop, The bliss and the ecstasy!