Three o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy.
Everything on earth is beautiful, everything — except what we ourselves think and do when we forget the higher purposes of life and our own human dignity.
My own experience is that once a story has been written, one has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying.
