NotHobbes and NoComment have honored me by responding with great generosity to my self-indulgent post "Donald Winnicott and Me." My thanks to both of them. I have followed NotHobbes' progress for some years now, and was even privileged to read his impressively scholarly Master's Essay on a topic in Scottish history hitherto entirely unknown to me. Both of them have reminded me of what I ought not to have needed to be reminded, that for a writer, any writer, what matters is not numbers of books sold nor royalty receipts nor even prizes and honors, but rather the opportunity to reach out to and touch a man or woman or child somewhere in the world with one's words. How long after I am gone will my words continue to find reception? That scarcely matters, considering that the entire human comedy is just the story of one mid-sized mammal in the latter Cenezoic Era.
As Jesus says in the Sermon on the Mount, Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof
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