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They knew that not every day is a day of glory. There must be difficult days, perhaps like those when each courts inspiration in his own way: Schiller in the smell of rotting apples; Turgenev in the scent of heliotrope; Kant, in gazing at a ruined tower; Shelley in sailing toy boats in his bath; Ibsen in staring at ``the bold eyes of the madman'': a portrait of Strindberg hanging above his desk.

They knew not every hour is a time of triumph. They knew what mattered most of all, was not their toying with remnants of an ancient game, but that, in varied ways, no two the same, each in his own style, made a bid, a claim for order and direction - and these came.

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