The best writing is certainly when you are in love

In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing, he felt quite sure that he would never die.

He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

He did not care for the lying at first. He hated it. Then later he had come to like it. It was part of being an insider but it was a very corrupting business.

The only thing that could spoil a day was people. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

Each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all.

I did not understand them but they did not have any mystery, and when I understood them they meant nothing to me. I was sorry about this but there was nothing I could do about it.