A good author, who writes carefully, often finds that the expression he has been looking for some time, and which he did not know, proves, when found at last, to be the most simple, the most natural, and the one which was most likely to present itself to him spontaneously at first. Fanciful authors often touch up their works. As their temper is not always the same, and as it varies on every occasion, they soon grow indifferent about those very expressions and terms they liked so much at first. (18.) The same common-sense which makes an author write good things, makes him dread they are not good enough to deserve reading. A shallow mind thinks his writings divine; a man of sense imagines he writes tolerably well. (19.) Aristus says, “I was prevailed upon to read my works to Zoilus,[54] and I did so. At first he liked them, before he had leisure to disapprove of them; he commended them coldly in my presence, and since then, has not said one word in their favour to any one. I excuse him, and desire no more from any author; I even pity him for listening to so many fine things which were not his own.” Those men who through their rank are exempt from an authorʼs jealousy, have either other passions or necessities to distract them, and to make them indifferent towards other menʼs conceptions. Almost no one, whether through disposition, inclination, or fortune, is willing to relish the delight that a perfect piece of work can give. (20.) The pleasure of criticism takes away from us the pleasure of being deeply moved by very fine things. (21.) Many people perceive the merit of a manuscript which is read to them, but will not declare themselves in its favour until they see what success it has in the world when printed, or what intelligent men will say about it. They do not like to risk their opinion, and they want to be carried away by the crowd, and dragged along by the multitude. Then they say that they were amongst the first who approved of that work, and the general public shares their opinion.[55]