I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.

The writer, an old man with a white moustache, had some difficulty getting into bed.

From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy.

Everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.

The writing of words can lead to all sorts of absurdities.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.