In the schoolosphere, we're told to avoid mind altering substances. But if we mix our drinks which themselves are mind altering, but which are not such that we go from one moment to the next thinking that we've become one other hopeless irretrievable animal, we might just go from being somewhat uncertain of our individuality to the finding of individuality being a matter of a name.
Addictions and dependencies are another matter altogether, but some people hold on to these topics as if, were the world to become instantly drug free, they would no longer have a reason to live. Writing is certainly an addiction: I am dependent on it to the degree that I would pick up a five foot pike and make letters in my grass, were that the only way left me.
Some authors learnt from past masters and got their wives to proofread their work: such men accepted their wive's corrections without argument.
Detective stories came about when detectives came about. I'll need that to be accepted as a working hypothesis for now.
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One detective story leaves us decidedly unhappy because after introducing a gypsy girl and her brother, the story ends with the author dropping dead from overwork.
A detective is employed to follow the trail of evidence and must therefore cover up inspiration he receives as from God: this is crucial, for vanity can cause us to follow misleading sources of inspiration; which is not a pleasant thing to recover from.
But we don't know how we can solve the mystery of Edwin Drood without using magic.
Or perhaps we do: life's a bitch and then you die. If we accept that, why would such a man not drown himself?