Thus a literary critic in one of the leading British newspapers today. His was a review of a recent collection of previously unpublished essays, notes, and letters by a famous writer, now dead. By implication, writers are mere entertainers, and the nuts-and-bolts of their lives cannot be of wider interest or appeal. “But,” I gasped at first, “writers are the witnesses of our age!” I clinched my fists: “They are our conscience!” And then I realized I was falling into a trap. The impudent critic is right. Entertainers deserve to be treated like dirt. After all, I reminded myself, I am not a writer. Sadly, I must keep reminding myself of this simple fact.