I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.

You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.

My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.