we emerged into the pallid bleakness of a Paris winter day
Bunin, a spry old gentleman, with a rich and unchaste vocabulary, was puzzled by my irresponsiveness to the hazel grouse of which I had had enough in my childhood and exasperated by my refusal to discuss eschatological matters
Only much later, in the forties, did some of those writers finally discover a definite slope down which to slide in a more or less genuflectory attitude.
Current prose and poetry, brilliant planets and pale galaxies, flowed by the casement of my garret night after night
The break in my own destiny affords me in retrospect a syncopal kick that I would not have missed for worlds
not entirely sure
