paths beset with thorns, which have played havoc with my skin.

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 regime_," a Frenchwoman remarked
to me in Rome.