Arthur leisurely exhaled a puff of smoke, "Because the guy is blind."
Tennyson almost spat out the tea he was drinking, his deep sadness vanishing without a trace.
"Arthur, could you give me some mental preparation before you joke next time?"
Arthur shrugged, "Alfred, writing detective novels and writing poetry are not the same. Detective novels are all about sudden strikes when least expected, not about setting the mood like poetry."
Tennyson pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, "Well, it looks like my talent for detective novels is even lower than for poetry."
Arthur gently persuaded, "Alfred, someone with low talent could not have created a masterpiece like 'Timbuktu.' You're not untalented, just lacking some of the experiences necessary to be an outstanding poet. But as I just said, you are my friend, so I hope you might bury your talent and live a happy and fulfilling life, even if it ends as an ordinary person."
