Only what is of the mind has value to the mind. Let us dedicate
ourselves without compunction to reflecting a little upon the eternal
themes of life and art. It is surely proper that an author should write
of them.
I cultivate a love which is intellectual, and of a former epoch, besides
a deafness to the present. I pour out my spirit continually into the
eternal moulds without expecting that anything will result from it.
But now, instead of a novel, a few stray comments upon my life have come
from my pen.
Like most of my books, this has appeared in my hands without being
planned, and not at my bidding. I was asked to write an autobiographical
sketch of ten or fifteen pages. Ten or fifteen pages seemed a great many
to fill with the personal details of a life which is as insignificant as
my own, and far too few for any adequate comment upon them. I did not
know how to begin. To pick up the thread, I began drawing lines and
arabesques. Then the pages grew in number and, like Faust's dog, my pile
soon waxed big, and brought forth this work.
At times, perhaps, the warmth of the author's feeling may appear
ill-advised to the reader; it may be that he will find his opinions
ridiculous and beside the mark on every page. I have merely sought to
sun my vanity and egotism, to bring them forth into the air, so that my
aesthetic susceptibilities might not be completely smothered.
This book has been a work of mental hygiene.