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

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.

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?

Friends you have, people you love, die and are born again.

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.

Interest in the lives of others, the high evaluation of these lives, what are they but the overflow of the interest a man finds in himself, the value he attributes to his own being?.

I think that those of us who are what are called intellectuals make a terrible mistake in overvaluing the yen we have for the arts, books, etc. There is a sweet, fine quality in life that has nothing to do with this, and more and more I find myself valuing myself with those people.