As I turn over the pages of my books, now already growing old, I receive
the impression that, like a somnambulist, I have frequently been walking
close to the cornice of a roof, entirely unconsciously, but in imminent
danger of falling off; again, it seems to me that I have been travelling
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.