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

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?

It may be life is only worthwhile at moments. Perhaps that is all we ought to expect.

He thought about himself and to the young that always brings sadness.

Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.

I think you know that when an American stays away from New York too long something happens to him. Perhaps he becomes a little provincial, a little dead and afraid.

You can make a killing as a playwright in America, but you can't make a living.