Chapter 27 Literary Lessons

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and 'fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her 'scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The devine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her 'vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.

They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women's Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it? That's a first-rate story."

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.

"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.

"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.

"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, they say." and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.

"No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed."

"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.

"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it."

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded on paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.

She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when 'genius took to burning'. Jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild romances for _The Spread Eagle_. Her experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story.

A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way . . .

"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money."

"I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye.

"Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her 'rubbish' turned into comforts for them all. The Duke's Daughter paid the butcher's bill, A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.

"Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.

"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.

"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."

"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it. I've been fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."

"I wouldn't leave a word out of it. You'll spoil it if you do, for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written.

"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story'," interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher's note.

"Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject.

"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?"

"I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture 'soon'.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.

Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover.

"You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. "This man says, 'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.' 'All is sweet, pure, and healthy.'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.' (I know better than that), and the next asserts that 'Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."

Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's best education, and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.

"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly, "and I've got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'll comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."

 

乔突然交上了好运，她的生活道路上落下了幸运钱币。尽管未必是金币，但我怀疑五十万块钱也换不来她以这种方式得到的一小笔钱所带给她的快乐。

每隔几星期，她就把自己关在屋里，穿上她的涂抹工作服，像她自己说的，“掉进漩涡"，一门心思地写起小说来。小说一天没写完，她就一天不得安宁，她的"涂抹服"是一条黑色的羊毛围裙，可以随意在上面擦拭钢笔。还有一顶同样质地的帽子，上面装饰着一个怡人的红蝴蝶结，一旦准备动手写作，她便把头发束进蝴蝶结里。在家人好奇的眼里，这顶帽子是个信号，在乔写作的这段时间里，她们离她远远的，只是偶尔饶有兴趣地伸头探问：“乔，来灵感了吗？”即便这样，她们也不敢贸然发问，只是观察帽子的动静，并由此作出判断。若是这个富有表现力的服饰低低地压在前额，那表明她正在苦苦思索；写到激动时，帽子便时髦地斜戴着；文思枯竭时，帽子便给扯下来了。在这种时刻，谁闯进屋子都得默然而退，不到那天才的额头上竖起欢快的蝴蝶结，谁也不敢和乔说话。

她根本不把自己看作天才，然而一旦来了写作冲动，她便全部身心投入进去。她活得极快乐，一旦坐下来进入她的想象世界，便感到平安、幸福 -在那里有许多和现实生活中一样亲切的、活生生的朋友，令她意识不到贫困、忧虑，甚至糟糕的天气。她废寝忘食，因为享受这种快乐的时光太短了，而只有在这个时候，她才感到幸福，感到活得有意义，尽管这段时间她没做出别的什么。这种天才的灵感通常要持续一两个星期，然后，她从她的"漩涡"里冒出头来，又饿又困，脾气暴躁，要么便心灰意懒。

有一回，她刚从这样的一次发作中恢复过来，便被劝说陪伴克罗克小姐去听一个讲座。作为对她善行的回报，这次听课使她产生了个新想法。这是为教徒开的课程，讲座是关于金字塔的。乔弄不清为什么对这样的听众选这样的主题。可她想当然地认定，这些满脑子想着煤炭、面粉价格的听众们，成日里要解开的谜比斯芬克司提出的更难，对他们展示法老们的荣耀，能够大大减少社会的弊端，满足他们贪婪的欲求。

她们去早了。乘克罗克小姐调正长统袜跟的时候，乔打量着坐在她们周围的人们的面孔，以此消遣。她的左边坐着两个家庭主妇，硕大的额头配着宽大的帽子。她们一边编着织物，一边讨论着妇女权利问题。再过去，坐着一对谦恭的情人，毫不掩饰地手拉着手；一个忧郁的老处女正从纸袋里拿薄荷糖吃；一个老先生盖着黄头巾打盹，作好听课准备。乔的右边，她唯一的邻座是个看上去很好学的小伙子，正在专心地读着报纸。

那是张画报，乔观赏着靠近她一面的艺术画儿。画面上，一个身着全套战服的印第安人跌倒在悬岩边，一只狼正扑向她的咽喉。附近两位愤怒的年轻绅士正在互相厮杀，他俩的脚小得出奇，眼睛却大得出奇。背景中一个披头散发的女人大张着嘴正奔跑着想逃开。乔悠闲地想着到底是怎样一种不幸的事件，需要如此夸张地渲染。小伙子停下来翻画页时，见乔也在看，便递给她半张，直率地说：“想看看？那可是一流的故事。”乔微笑着接过来，她喜欢小伙子们，年龄增长也改变不了。很快乔就埋头干这类故事常有的错综复杂的爱情情节、神秘事件和凶杀中去了。这个故事属于那种热情奔放的通俗文学。当作家智穷力竭时，便来一场大灾难，去掉舞台上一半的剧中人物，让那另一半人物为这些人的覆灭幸灾乐祸。

“棒极了，是不是？”小伙子问。乔还在扫视着这半张报纸的最后一段。

“我看，假如要写的话，你我同样能写这么好，”乔回答道，她为小伙子赞赏这种无聊的作品感到可笑。

“要是我能写的话，就太幸运了。听说她写这种故事赚了很多钱。”他指着故事标题下的姓名，Ｓ．Ｌ．Ａ．Ｎ．Ｇ．诺思布里夫人。

“你认识她？”乔突然来了兴趣。

“不，她的作品我都读过。我认识的一个朋友就在印这份报纸的地方工作。”“你是说她写这种故事赚了很多钱？”乔看着布满报纸的惊叹号和令人揪心的这几个人，有些起敬了。

“我想是的！她晓得人们爱看什么，写这些能赚好多钱。”这时，讲座开始了，乔几乎一个字都没听进去。当桑兹教授啰啰嗦嗦地讲贝尔佐尼、基奥普斯、圣甲虫雕饰物和象形文字时，她偷偷摸摸地抄下了报纸的地址。报纸征集轰动一时的故事，并提供一百美元的奖金。乔决心大胆一试。等到讲座结束，听众醒来时，她已为自己积聚了一笔可观的财富（这不是第一次从报纸上挣的）。她沉浸在故事的策划中，只是拿不定决斗场面放在私奔前还是放在谋杀后。

回到家，她只字没提她的计划。第二天立即开始工作，这使妈妈非常不安，因为，”天才冒火花"时，妈妈看上去总是有点焦虑。乔以前从未写过这种风格的东西，为《展翼鹰》报写这种非常柔和的浪漫传奇，她洋洋自得。她的戏剧表演经验和广博的阅读现在派上了用场，这使她掌握了一些戏剧效果，并为她提供了情节、语言及服装。她的故事里充满了绝望和沮丧，因为她有限的几个熟人中有着这种使人非常难受的情绪，她也就在故事里予以体现。故事的场景设在里斯本，以一场地震结束，这样的结局出人意料，却又合情合理。她悄悄地寄走了手稿，并附上便条，谦虚地声称如果中不了奖，这故事值多少钱就给她多少钱，她会很高兴的。她没敢想过中奖。

六个月的等待是很长的一段时间，一个女孩子要保密，六个月就显得更长了。但是，乔既等了，又守住了秘密。她开始放弃再见到手稿的希望了。这时，来了一封信，使她人吃一惊。因为，一打开信封，一张一百元支票便落在了她的膝盖上。有那么一会儿，她盯着支票看，好像那是条蛇。然后，她读了信，哭了起来，假如那位可爱的先生早知道他写的这样一封客套信会给他的同胞带来这样强烈的幸福，我想，他一有空闲时间，便会全用来写信了。乔把那封信看得比钱还重，因为信给了他鼓励，而且在多年努力之后，终于发现自己学会了某些事情，真让她高兴，尽管只写了个有点耸人听闻的故事。

当乔平静下来后，一手拿着信，一手拿着支票，出现在家人面前，宣布她已获奖的时候，人们很难见到比乔更得意的年轻女人了。全家人一下子震惊不已，当然更少不了狂欢庆祝。故事发出来后，每个人都读了，并大加赞赏。爸爸对她说，故事语言不错，爱情表现得生动、热烈，悲剧扣人心弦。然后他超然地摆着头说 “你能写点更好的东西，乔。瞄准最高的目标，千万别去在乎钱。”“我倒是觉得这件事最好的部分是钱。这么多钱你将怎么花呢？”艾美虔诚地看着这张具有魔力的支票问道。

“送贝思和妈妈到海边过一两个月，”乔即刻回答。

“啊，太妙了！不，我不能去，亲爱的，那样太自私了，”贝思叫了起来。她拍了拍纤弱的手，深吸了口气，好像渴望着新鲜的海风，然后停下来，推开了姐姐在她面前挥动的支票。

“哦，你得去，就这么定了。我写故事就为这个，因此才会成功。我只想着自己时，从来干不好事情，你看，为写作挣钱也成全了我自己，对吗？而且，妈咪也需要换换空气，她不会丢开你，所以你一定得去。等你长胖了回来，面色红润，那该多好！乔医生万岁！她总能治好她的病人！”反复讨论后，她们终于去了海边。回来时尽管贝思没有像希望的那样长胖，面色变红，但身体感觉好多了。而马奇太太声称她感到年轻了十岁。因此，乔对她的奖金投资很满意，情绪饱满地又开始写作，一心要多挣些令人愉快的支票。

那一年，她确实挣了不少，并开始意识到自己在家中的分量。

因为通过笔的魔力，她的"废话"使全家人过得很舒适。《公爵之女》付了买肉钱，《幽灵的手》铺下了一条新地毯，《考文垂的咒语》让马奇一家过上了丰衣足食的小康生活。

财富的确是人们非常渴望的，然而贫穷也有它光明的一面。逆境的好处之一是人们从自己艰苦卓绝的奋斗中感到真正的愉快。我们存在于世间的智慧、美丽与能力，有一半得之于困境的激励。乔沉醉于这种愉快的感觉中，不再羡慕那些有钱的女孩。她知道她能不向别人要一分钱而为自己提供需要的一切，从中她获得巨大的安慰。

小说并未引起多大的注意，但销路不错。她为之鼓舞，决心为名利大胆一搏。她把小说抄了四遍，念给她所有的知心朋友听，怀着一颗惴惴不安的心寄给了三个出版商。小说终于被接受了，不过条件是得删去三分之一，其中还有那些自己最为得意的地方。

“现在，我必须要么把小说塞回我那蹩脚的灶间加工一下，然后自费出版；要么按出版商的要求将它删短，得我那一份钱。对这个家来说，出名声是件好事，可有钱更合宜，所以我想听听你们对这件大事的意见，”乔说着召开了家庭会议。

“别把书弄毁了，我的姑娘，这故事还有你没想到的含意，而且，故事构思得不错。放一放，等待时机成熟吧。”这是爸爸的建议，他躬行己言，三十多年来，一直耐心等待着自己人生的果实成熟，即使如今已瓜果飘香，他也并不急于收获。

“依我看，试一试比等待更有利，”马奇太太说道，”评论是这种事情最好的检验，能指出她未曾料到的价值和不足之处，促使她下次写得更好。我们的意见过于偏袒她，可是外人对她的褒贬会有用的，即使她得不到什么钱。”“是的。”乔皱起了眉头。”情况就是这样。这么长时间我一直忙着这个故事，我真的不知道它是好是坏，还是没有多大意思。让人不带偏见地谈一谈，告诉我他们的意见，将对我大有帮助。”“假如是我，一个字也不删，你要是删了就会毁了它。故事里面人物的思想比行动更让人感兴趣。如果一直写下去不加解释，会让人摸不着头脑，“梅格说，她坚持这是个最最出色的小说。

“可是艾伦先生说：'去掉解释，使故事简洁、戏剧化，让人物说故事。'"乔提起出版商的意见，打断了梅格。

“照他说的做，他知道什么有销路，我们却不知道。写本好的畅销书，尽可能地赚钱。渐渐地你就会有名气，就能够改变风格，写一些理性的、玄奥的人物，“艾美说，对这件事她的看法的确实用。

“喔，”乔说着笑起来，”要是我的人物是'理性的、玄奥的'，那不是我的错，我对那些一窍不通，只是有时听爸爸谈起。要是我的传奇故事里能掺进些爸爸的博学思想，对我来说更好。哎，贝思，你怎么看？”“我就是希望故事快点印出来。“贝思笑着只说了这一句话，她无意中加重了"快点"这两个字的语气，眼神里流露出渴望。她的眼睛里总有一股孩子般的率真。听了她的话，乔心里一阵发冷，一种不祥的预感使她打定主意"快点"小试一番。

就这样，带着斯巴达式的吃苦耐劳精神，年轻的女作家将她的处女作放在桌上，像神话中的吃人妖魔一样不留情地开始大加删改。为了让家人高兴，每个人的意见她都采纳了，就像老人和驴那则寓言所说的那样，结果谁也不中意。

爸爸喜欢那作品无意带上的玄奥特色，因此，尽管乔有疑虑，还是保留了这些。妈妈认为描述部分确实多了些，就这么着，连同许多必要的环节，全给删掉了。梅格欣赏悲剧部分，所以乔大肆渲染痛苦以合她的心意。而艾美不赞成逗乐，乔便好心好意地扼杀了用来点缀故事中严肃人物的欢快场面。她还砍掉了故事的三分之一，就这样完全把它毁了。这个可怜的小传奇故事就像一只拔了毛的知更鸟，乔深信不疑地将它交付给热闹的大千世界去碰碰运气。

还不错，印出来了。乔得了三百美元，同时也得到了许多赞扬和批评。她没料到有这么多意见，一下陷入迷惑之中，好一段时间不能自拔。

“妈，你说过，评论能帮助我。可评论太矛盾了，搞得我不晓得到底是写了本挺不错的书，还是破了十诫，这样能帮我吗？”可怜的乔翻阅着一叠评论大声叫着。她时而充满自信、快乐，时而愤怒、沮丧。”这个人说：'一本绝妙的书，充满真善美。一切都那么美好、纯净、健康。'"困惑的女作家接着读，”下一个：'书的理论不好，满是令人毛骨悚然的幻想、精神主义至上的念头，以及怪异的人物。'你瞧我没有任何理论，我也不相信精神主义至上论，我的人物来自生活，我认为这个评论家怎也不能说是对。另一个这么说：'这是美国近年来出版的最杰出的小说之一'（我知道得更清楚）；'再下一个断言：'这是本危险的书，尽管它内容新颖，写得有气势，有激情。'可不是嘛！一些人嘲笑它，一些人吹捧它，几乎所有的人都坚信我想阐述一种深奥的理论，可是我写它只是为了玩儿，为了钱。我真希望没删节全部印出来，不然不如不樱真讨厌被人误评。”家人和朋友们都极力劝慰她，可是对精神高尚、生性敏感的乔来说，这是件十分难受的事。她显然是好心却干出了错事。然而，这件事对她还是有益的，那些有价值的批评意见使作者受到了最好的教益，最初的难受劲过去后，她就能自嘲那本可怜的小书了，而且仍不乏自信。虽然遭受了打击，她感到自己更聪明、更有力了。

“我不是济慈那样的天才，但这又有何妨！”她勇敢地说，“毕竟，我也有笑他们的地方。我取材于现实生活的部分被贬毁为不可能，荒唐。而我傻脑袋里编出来的场景却被赞誉为'自然、温柔、真实，具有魅力'。所以，我可以用这些安慰自己。等我准备好了，我还会重整齐鼓，写些别的。”