In A Painting, You Can't Make Out

I Think If Something Is Worth Doing, It's Worth Doing Well. And Worth Thinking About It As Well.

But I Too Hate Long Books: The Better, The Worse. If They're Bad They Merely Make Me Pant With The Effort Of Holding Them Up For A Few Minutes. But If They're Good, I Turn Into A Social Moron For Days, Refusing To Go Out Of My Room, Scowling And Growling At Interruptions, Ignoring Weddings And Funerals, And Making Enemies Out Of Friends. I Still Bear The Scars Of Middlemarch.

I Need My Natural Laziness To Be Counteracted By Obsession In Order To Do Anything.

Why Do Writers, Say, Give Up A Job In Economics And Decide To Write Poetry? Or, Why Do They Give Up A Job In A Bank And Decide To Paint, Like Krishan Khanna? They Want To Convey Something.

Of Course, The Greater One's Need, The Greater One's Propensity To Be Mesmerized.