In Man's Struggle Against The World, Bet

A Non-writing Writer Is A Monster Courting Insanity.

I Have Hardly Anything In Common With Myself And Should Stand Very Quietly In A Corner, Content That I Can Breathe.

In A Certain Sense You Deny The Existence Of This World. You Explain Life As A State Of Rest, A State Of Rest In Motion.

I Am Away From Home And Must Always Write Home, Even If Any Home Of Mine Has Long Since Floated Away Into Eternity.

All I Am Is Literature, And I Am Not Able Or Willing To Be Anything Else.