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As for you, she went on, you don’t change. Yes, you are astonishing, you look so young’ a saddening remark, because, however we may look, it only means anything if we in fact grown old.

True books must be product not of chitchat and daylight but of darkness and silence. And as art exactly reconstructs life, an atmosphere of poetry will always hover around the truths that one has reached in oneself, a gentle sense of mystery which is merely the remains of the semi-darkness we have had to pass through, the indication, as precisely marked as on altimeter, of the depth of a work.

But we read the newspapers in the Sam way as we love, blindfold. We do not attempt to understand the facts. We listen to the editor’s soothing words as we listen to the word of our mistress. We are beaten and happy because we think we are victorious, not beaten.

It is curious thing how little not only a person’s expressions but also their thoughts vary.