"Olivia, if this bungalow fell into the tank would it splash out all the water?"
"Of course it would."
"Then what would the water do when it fell back from the splash and found the bungalow blocking up its tank?"
Unable to think of an answer, I tell him to be a good boy and not disturb people when they are writing. Ronald begs for a piece of paper and a pencil, and having got it, proceeds to write down everything beginning with G. I once told Peter to do that, and his list when I looked at it ran: "God—Gollywog—Gordon Highlanders." ...
Immediately I resume my writing it begins again, "Olivia" in every tone, peremptory, beseeching, coaxing—but like the deaf adder I stop my ears and refuse to hear. I am using this opportunity to write my great work on the Mutiny, and it isn't nearly so easy to write a book as I thought. No matter how much I try, my sentences seem all to stand up on end. I can't acquire any ease or grace of style. I read somewhere lately that young writers use too many adjectives, that good writers depend more on verbs. It has made me rather nervous and I keep counting both, but a certain dubiety in my own mind as to which is which greatly
