如果说作家没有自由，那么又有几个人是自由的？倘若他没有安全感，又有几人是安全的？作家的工具再普通不过了，极为廉价，几乎没有什么商业价值。他不需要庞大的原材料，不需要精密仪器，不需要别人鞍前马后地服务。他的职业只靠自己，不靠任何人，只操心自己，任何事都无所谓。他就是一国之君，自给自立。没有人能没收他的资产；没有人能剥夺他从业的资本；没有人能强迫他把自己的才华施展在他不情愿的地方；没有人能阻止他按自己的选择发挥天赋。他的笔就是人类和各个民族的救世主。任何束缚都无法禁锢，任何贫困都阻挡不了，任何关税也无法限制，他任凭思想自由驰骋，甚至“泰晤士图书俱乐部”也只能对他的收获有节制地施加打击。只要尽力而为了，不管作品的结果是好是坏，他都会觉得很开心。我总相信在风云变幻、令人头疼的政治生涯中，有一条通向宁静富饶之地的退路，那是任何无赖都到达不了的地方，我永远不会感到失败的沮丧，也永远不会空虚无聊，哪怕没有权势。的确，在那时，我虔诚地感谢自己生来就爱好写作；在那时，我无比感激每个时代、每片疆土上的所有勇士，是他们做出的斗争使现在的写作拥有无可争议的自由。
英语是一种多么高尚的语言！我们每写下一页，都沉浸在母语的柔韧灵活、博大精深为我们带来的不容置疑的喜悦中。如果一位英国作家，不能用练达的英语说出他必须说的话，那么那句话或许不值得说。倘若没有深入研究英语，那是何等的憾事！我不是要攻击古典教育。凡是自信对文学有点鉴赏力的人，都不可能漠视希腊文、罗马文。但我得承认，我深深地忧虑我国目前的教育制度。我难以相信这个制度是好的，甚至是合理的，因为它把只有少数特权人物和天才才能欣赏的东西，展示在不情愿接受又莫名其妙的大众面前。对大多数公学的学生来说，古典教育始终都是些冗长无用和没有什么意义的陈词滥调。如果有人告诉我，古典课程是学习英语的最好准备，那我就会回答说，迄今为止，大多数学生已完成学业，然而这个准备阶段仍然未完成，他们也没有收获任何预期的优势。
那些无缘成为大学者而又对古代作家有所了解的人，难道可以说他们已经掌握了英语吗？那些从大学和公学毕业的年轻人，有几人能把一段拉丁诗文娴熟地写下来，足以让坟墓中的古罗马人为之动情！而能够写出几行连珠妙语的人就更少了，更不用说用英语简洁练达地写出几个精彩的段落！不过，我倒是非常羡慕古希腊人——当然我得听别人讲述他们的情形——我很乐意见到我们的教育家至少能在一个方面效仿古希腊人。古希腊人如何运用自己的语言，使之成为人类迄今所知最高雅、最简练的表达方式呢？他们是否用了毕生的时间学习在此之前的语言呢？他们是否不知疲倦地潜心研究某个已不复存在的世界里的原始方言呢？根本没有！他们只学习希腊语，他们学习自己的语言，他们热爱它、珍惜它、修饰它、拓展它，因此，它才能得以延续，其楷模和乐趣供所有后人享用。毫无疑问，对我们来说，既然英语已经为自己在现代世界里赢得了这般举世无双的地位，我们至少能从古希腊人那里吸取些训导，在多年的教育中稍微操点心，抽空去学习一种也许在人类未来发展中起到主导作用的语言。
让我们记住，作家永远可以发挥最大的努力。他找不出任何托词不这样做。板球明星也许会发挥失常；将军在决战之日也许会牙疼，也许他的部队很糟糕；舰队司令也可能会晕船——作为晕船者我满意地想到了那意外；卡鲁索可能会得黏膜炎；哈肯施米特也会得流感；对于一位演说家来说，仅仅是想得好和想得正确是不够的，他还得脑筋转得快，速度至关重要，随机应变越来越成为优秀演说家的标志。所有这些活动都需要行动者在一个特定的时刻全心全意地付出，而无法掌控的各种事态也许决定着这一时刻，作家的情况就不需要这样。他可以等到一切准备就绪时再出场，他永远可以把他的最大潜能发挥出来。他并不依赖于自己在某一天的最佳时刻，他可以把二十天的最佳时刻攒起来。他没有理由不尽最大的努力，等待他的机会很多，赋予他的责任也很重大。有人说过这样的话——我忘了是谁说的——“言语是唯一恒久的东西”。我以为这永远是绝妙的思想。人类用石块垒起的如此坚固的大厦，是人类力量最伟大的结晶，但它也可能会夷为平地，而那一闪而过的言辞，那思绪飞扬时即逝的表达却延续了下来，它不是历史的回音，不是纯粹的建筑奇迹或令人肃然起敬的遗迹，但它的力量依旧强大，生命依旧鲜活，有时候远比当初说出来的时候更加坚强有力，它穿越了三千年的时光隧道，为生活在现在的我们照亮了世界。
The fortunate people in the world—the only really fortunate people in the world, in my mind, —are those whose work is also their pleasure. The class is not a large one, not nearly so large as it is often represented to be; and authors are perhaps one of the most important elements in its composition. They enjoy in this respect at least a real harmony of life. To my mind, to be able to make your work your pleasure is the one class distinction in the world worth striving for; and I do not wonder that others are inclined to envy those happy human beings who find their livelihood in the gay effusions of their fancy, to whom every hour of labor is an hour of enjoyment to whom repose—however necessary—is a tiresome interlude, and even a holiday is almost deprivation. Whether a man writes well or ill, has much to say or little, if he cares about writing at all, he will appreciate the pleasures of composition. To sit at one table on a sunny morning, with four clear hours of uninterruptible security, plenty of nice white paper, and a Squeezer pen—that is true happiness. The complete absorption of the mind upon an agreeable occupation—what more is there than to desire? What does it matter what happens outside? The House of Commons may do what it like, and so may the House of Lords. The heathen may rage furiously in every part of the globe. The bottom may be knocked clean out of the American market. Consols may fall and suffragettes may rise. Never mind, for four hours, at any rate, we will withdraw ourselves from a common-ill-governed, and disorderly world, and with the key of fancy unlock that cupboard where all the good things of the infinite are put away.
And speaking of freedom is not the author free, as few men are free? Is he not secure, as few men are secure? The tools of his industry are so common and so cheap that they have almost ceased to have commercial value. He needs no bulky pile of raw material, no elaborate apparatus, no service of men or animals. He is dependent for his occupation upon no one but himself, and nothing outside him that matters. He is the sovereign of an empire, self-supporting, self-contained. No one can sequestrate his estates. No one can deprive him of his stock in trade; no one can force him to exercise his faculty against his will; no one can prevent him exercising it as he chooses. The pen is the great liberator of men and nations. No chains can bind, no poverty can choke, no tariff can restrict the free play of his mind, and even the “Times Book Club” can only exert a moderately depressing influence upon his rewards. Whether his work is good or bad, so long as he does his best he is happy. I often fortify myself amid the uncertainties and vexations of political life by believing that I possess a line of retreat into a peaceful and fertile country where no rascal can pursue and where one need never be dull or idle or ever wholly without power. It is then, indeed, that I feel devoutly thankful to have been born fond of writing. It is then, indeed, that I feel grateful to all the brave and generous spirits who, in every age and in every land, have fought to establish the now unquestioned freedom of the pen.
