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.