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.

Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.

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

There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.

Dare to be strong and courageous. That is the road. Venture anything.

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.

The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor.