I Was At Home Then

I Became An Ardent, But Never A Specially Good, Dancer.

Forgetfulness, The Unhistorical, Is ... The Atmosphere, In Which Alone Life Can Come Into Being. In Order To Understand It, Let Us Imagine A Youth Who Is Seized With A Passion For A Woman, Or A Man Who Is Swayed By A Passion For His Work. In Both Cases What Lies Behind Them Has Ceased To Exist And Yet This State (the Most Unhistorical That Can Be Imagined) Is That In Which Every Action, Every Great Deed Is Conceived And Accomplished.

I Admired In Others The Strength That I Lacked Myself.

Among The Delights Of Summer Were Picnics To The Woods.

It Was Jolly In The Country. A Cow And Little Pigs To Play With And Milk Warm From The Cow.