So the days pass, and I ask myself whether one is not hypnotized, as a child by a silver globe, by life, and whether this is living.
Nothing, I know, had any chance against death.
... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?
On or about December 1910, human character changed.
Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.