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.

If I can write everything out plainly, perhaps I will myself understand better what has happened.

The eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.

What's wrong with this egotism? If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?

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

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

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers