I have maintained myself rather clumsily for the most part, yet at times not without a certain degree of skill. All my books are youthful books; they express turbulence; perhaps their youth is a youth which is lacking in force and vigour, but nevertheless, they are youthful books. Among thorns and brambles there lies concealed a tiny Fountain of Youth in my soul. You may say that its waters are bitter and saline, instead of being crystalline and clear. And it is true. Yet the fountain flows on, and bubbles, and gurgles and splashes into foam. That is enough for me. I do not wish to dam it up, but to let the water run and remove itself. I have always felt kindly toward anything that removes itself. THE BEGINNING AND END OF THE JOURNEY I formerly considered myself a young man of protoplasmic capabilities, and I entertained very little enthusiasm for form until after I had talked with some Russians. Since then I have realized that I was more clean cut, more Latin, and a great deal older than I had supposed. "I see that you belong to the _ancient régime_," a Frenchwoman remarked to me in Rome. "I? Impossible!" "Yes," she insisted. "You are a conversationalist. You are not an elegant, sprucely dressed abbé; you are an abbé who is cynical and ill-natured, who likes to fancy himself a savage amid the comfortable surroundings of the drawing-room." The Frenchwoman's observation set me to thinking. Can it be that I am hovering in the vicinity of Apollo's Temple without realizing it? Possibly my literary life has been merely a journey from the Valley of Dionysus to the Temple of Apollo. Now somebody will tell me that art begins only on the bottom step of the Temple of Apollo. And it is true. But there is where I stop--on the bottom step. MELLOWNESS AND THE CRITICAL SENSE Whenever my artistic conscience reproaches me, I always think: If I were to undertake to write these books today, now that I am aware of their defects, I should never write them. Nevertheless, I continue to write others with the same old faults. Shall I ever attain that mellowness of soul in which all the vividness of impression remains, yet in which it has become possible to perfect the expression? I fear not. Most likely, when I reach the stage of refining the expression, I shall have nothing to say, and so remain silent. SENSIBILITY In my books, as in most that are modern, there is an indefinable resentment against life and against society. Resentment against life is of far more ancient standing than resentment against society. The former has always been a commonplace among philosophers. Life is absurd, life is difficult of direction, life is a disease, the better part of the philosophers have told us. When man turned his animosity against society, it became the fashion to exalt life. Life is good; man, naturally, is magnanimous, it was said. Society has made him bad.