Dolce Far Niente

The thing I must do’s just the thing I can’t. It’s my artistic nature, I suppose. Impatient, volatile and – heaven knows – disposed to overthrow, subvert, supplant, less drawn to things that are than those that aren’t. A deft, exquisite ode trumps plodding prose; four hours of labour, twenty of repose. An acquerello, limber, quick, you’ll grant is more attractive than your slippery oils, since easier to manipulate. You see, I’m not the turgid type that, tortured, toils for excellence unshaped, illusory. I’ll take it if it surges, fizzles, boils and masters me. If not, I’ll let it be.