In a doorstoop on Sarphatistraat, beyond the curve of the Prinsengracht and two short blocks from the Amstel, a young man bellows.

You’re under no necessity to compose;
Why you should wish to publish, heaven knows.
There’s no excuse for printing tedious rot
Unless one writes for bread, as you do not.
Resist temptation, then, I beg of you;
Conceal your pastimes from the public view.
— Molière, The Misanthrope