There is, I think, in every artist, a listlessness that is born of the recognition which most people have, at some point in their lives, that human enterprise in any form, and perhaps even civilization itself, is, while not without purpose, more ephemeral than our habits and our enthusiasms and our hostilities would suggest we understand it to be. And while this recognition is not without value (for it has in it some quality of wisdom) it could, if not for the strength of some compulsion or effort that competes with it, inside the artist, and that is not entirely explicable, lead that artist to produce nothing, or to suddenly quit producing, after a period of activity.