I cried sobbingly until at last those visions reeking with blood came to comfort me. And then I surrendered myself to them, to those deplorably brutal visions, my most intimate friends.

Was I ignorant, then, when I was seventeen? I think not. I knew everything. A quarter-century's experience of life since then has added nothing to what I knew. The one difference is that at seventeen I had no 'realism'.

It is a rather risky matter to discuss a happiness that has no need of words.

The instant that the blade tore open his flesh, the bright disk of the sun soared up and exploded behind his eyelids.

All my life I have been acutely aware of a contradiction in the very nature of my existence. For forty-five years I struggled to resolve this dilemma by writing plays and novels. The more I wrote, the more I realized mere words were not enough. So I found another form of expression.

Glory, as anyone knows, is bitter stuff.

If we value so highly the dignity of life, how can we not also value the dignity of death No death may be called futile.