At night, after the day’s work, he wrote. Year after year he
       had written, but the right words were still not all there,
       the right rhythms not always used. He corrected the old and added new.

While away on a business trip he died. His children playing
       about the house, left home by the widow out at work,
       found the manuscript so carefully written and rewritten.
The paper was good to scribble on. Then they tore it into bits.
       At night the mother came home and swept it out.