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

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

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.

Her thoughts ran away to her girlhood with its passionate longing for adventure and she remembered the arms of men that had held her when adventure was a possible thing for her. Particularly she remembered one who had for a time been her lover and who in the moment of his passion had cried out to her more than a hundred times, saying the same words madly over and over: "You dear! You dear! You lovely dear!" The words, she thought, expressed something she would have liked to have achieved in life.

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

I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

If people did not want their stories told, it would be better for them to keep away from me.