And a certain scribe came, and said to him, Master, I will follow you wherever you go.…
Oh! what pictures there would be, if I could only take the trouble to learn to paint the things that I dream about! Such frescoes I Such magnificent renderings of magnificent scenes! Such portraitures! The trouble is, that while my imagination is fruitful enough, it is a shiftless and careless fruitfulness, and it never comes down lower than that, and dies in the nest where it was born. I think of things, and turn them over, and turn them over, and make pictures, and forget them, and make pictures, and forget them; but I am not an artist. An artist is a man whose wishes get down through his shoulders to his fingers; and he makes what he wishes he was going to make. He does. He turns into account that which would otherwise die as smoke or cloud. Men of reverie are like clouds that never rain. Men of function shower down resolutions in the form of drops, and results spring up from them.
Parallel VersesKJV: And a certain scribe came, and said unto him, Master, I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest.