“Young Castle called me "Scoop." "Good Morning, Scoop. What's new in the word game?""I might ask the same of you," I replied."I'm thinking of calling a general strike of all writers until mankind finally comes to its senses. Would you support it?""Do writers have a right to strike? That would be like the police or the firemen walking out.""Or the college professors.""Or the college professors," I agreed. I shook my head. "No, I don't think my conscience would let me support a strike like that. When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlightenment and comfort at top speed.""I just can't help thinking what a real shake up it would give people if, all of a sudden, there were no new books, new plays, new histories, new poems...""And how proud would you be when people started dying like flies?" I demanded."They'd die more like mad dogs, I think--snarling & snapping at each other & biting their own tails."I turned to Castle the elder. "Sir, how does a man die when he's deprived of the consolation of literature?""In one of two ways," he said, "petrescence of the heart or atrophy of the nervous system.""Neither one very pleasant, I expect," I suggested."No," said Castle the elder. "For the love of God, both of you, please keep writing!”