i watched , experiencing that same odd mix of amusement and sympathy , as he finally held the book nearly at arm 's length , and read , `` so that the life of a writer , whatever he might fancy to the contrary , was not so much a state of composition , as a state of warfare ; and his probation in it , precisely that of any other man militant upon earth-both depending alike , not half so much upon the degrees of his wit-as his resistance . ''