{"id":"01KG8AKSEMSEY9G50056Q50B56","cid":"bafkreice4ov4cybtnxd2benadwwe7h4lue7t5zz6fpo6pg6eeih37lk5nq","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":10763,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 4","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":10672,"text":"BABBALANJA—Yoomy, Lombardo eschewed olives. Said he, “What fasting\r\nsoldier can fight? and the fight of all fights is to write.” In ten\r\ndays Lombardo had written—\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Dashed off, you mean.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—He never dashed off aught.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—As you will.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—In ten days, Lombardo had written full fifty folios; he\r\nloved huge acres of vellum whereon to expatiate.\r\n\r\nMEDIA—What then?\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—He read them over attentively; made a neat package of the\r\nwhole: and put it into the fire.\r\n\r\nALL—How?\r\n\r\nMEDIA—What! these great geniuses writing trash?\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—I thought as much.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—My lords, they abound in it! more than any other men in\r\nMardi. Genius is full of trash. But genius essays its best to keep it\r\nto itself; and giving away its ore, retains the earth; whence, the too\r\nfrequent wisdom of its works, and folly of its life.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Then genius is not inspired, after all. How they must slave in\r\ntheir mines! I weep to think of it.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your\r\nhighness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused. Of\r\nourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing. When Lombardo set\r\nabout his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build\r\nhimself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and\r\ndeeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through\r\nbaffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. “In good time,”\r\nsaith he, in his autobiography, “I came out into a serene, sunny,\r\nravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild plaints,\r\nroguish laughs, prophetic voices. “Here we are at last, then,” he\r\ncried; “I have created the creative.” And now the whole boundless\r\nlandscape stretched away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow;\r\nhe off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean; his face\r\nto a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave himself\r\nplenty of room. On one side was his ream of vellum—\r\n\r\nABBRAZZA—And on the other, a brimmed beaker.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for Lombardo\r\nwhile actually at work.\r\n\r\nMOHI—Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality of\r\nLombardo’s punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding humor of\r\nhis.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well braced.\r\n\r\nYOOMY—Quick! tell us the secret.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp swung in heaven.— He\r\nrose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was alive.\r\n\r\nMOHI—Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed\r\nlouder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man? The\r\nbabe may have many dimples; not so, the parent. Lombardo was a hermit\r\nto behold.\r\n\r\nMEDIA—What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—His merriment was not always merriment to him, your\r\nHighness. For the most part, his meaning kept him serious. Then he was\r\nso intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.\r\n\r\nMOHI—My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—For the nonce, he was not his own master: a mere amanuensis\r\nwriting by dictation.\r\n\r\nYOOMY—Inspiration, that!\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA.—Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort of sleep- walking\r\nof the mind. Lombardo never threw down his pen: it dropped from him;\r\nand then, he sat disenchanted: rubbing his eyes; staring; and feeling\r\nfaint—sometimes, almost unto death.\r\n\r\nMEDIA—But pray, Babbalanja, tell us how he made acquaintance with some\r\nof those rare worthies, he introduces us to, in his Koztanza.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 4"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJW03Z0Q25AN0GF175AXF","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSEM8TP5G61ZCTTYP7SH","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSEZ8N6Q8YMSRHREVJHK","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.828Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:28.182Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}