Outside The Sky Is Light With Stars

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.

How Idiotic Civilization Is! Why Be Given A Body If You Have To Keep It Shut Up In A Case Like A Rare, Rare Fiddle?

I Am Going To Enjoy Life In Paris I Know. It Is So Human And There Is Something Noble In The City... It Is A Real City, Old And Fine And Life Plays In It For Everybody To See.

I Always Felt That The Great High Privilege, Relief And Comfort Of Friendship Was That One Had To Explain Nothing.

There Is No Feeling To Be Compared With The Feeling Of Having Written And Finished A Story.