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.

What is to be got at to make the air sweet, the ground good under the feet, can only be got at by failure, trial, again and again and again failure.

The disease we all have and that we have to fight against all our lives is ... the disease of self.

I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men....It blew ideas away.

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

I am a lover and have not found my thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough to realize what I mean. It makes my destruction inevitable, you see. There are few who understand that.