" But, in yourself, you said that you would write about these people ... and for once it would be written by some one who knew what he was writing of.

But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. "

― Ernest Hemingway , The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories