The Fact Is That Between The Classes

Amid The Stillness Of The Night, In The Depths Of The Ravine, From The Direction In Which The Corpses Lay Suddenly Resounded A Kind Of Inhuman, Frightful Laughter In Which Quivered Despair, And Joy, And Cruelty, And Suffering, And Pain, And Sobbing, And Derision; The Heart-rending And Spasmodic Laughter Of The Insane Or Condemned.

This Homage Has Been Rendered Not To Me - For The Polish Soil Is Fertile And Does Not Lack Better Writers Than Me - But To The Polish Achievement, The Polish Genius.

But I Think Happiness Springs From Another Source, A Far Deeper One That Doesn't Depend On Will Because It Comes From Love.

If The Infinity Of The Sea May Call Out Thus, Perhaps When A Man Is Growing Old, Calls Come To Him, Too, From Another Infinity Still Darker And More Deeply Mysterious; And The More He Is Wearied By Life The Dearer Are Those Calls To Him.

A Man Who Leaves Memoirs, Whether Well Or Badly Written, Provided They Be Sincere, Renders A Service To Future Psychologists And Writers, Giving Them Not Only A Faithful Picture, But Likewise Human Documents That May Be Relied Upon.