When I was a little boy I did not, of course, trouble much about my appearance.

I did not know what it was to be happy for a whole day at a time, scarcely for an hour.

But my doubt would not be overcome. Kierkegaard had declared that it was only to the consciousness of sin that Christianity was not horror or madness. For me it was sometimes both.

My first experiences of academic friendship made me smile in after years when I looked back on them. But my circle of acquaintances had gradually grown so large that it was only natural new friendships should grow out of it.

I admired in others the strength that I lacked myself.

I came into the world two months too soon, I was in such a hurry.

That a literature in our time is living is shown in that way that it debates problems.