If you care for me, Frank, you will not ask me to write." "You promised to try," I said somewhat harshly, "and I want you to try.
You haven't suffered more than Dante suffered in exile and poverty; yet you know if he had suffered ten times as much, he would have written it all down.

Tears, indeed! the fire in his eyes would have dried the tears." "True enough, Frank, but Dante was all of one piece whereas I am drawn in two different directions.

I was born to sing the joy and pride of life, the pleasure of living, the delight in everything beautiful in this most beautiful world, and they took me and tortured me till I learned pity and sorrow.

Now I cannot sing the joy, heartily, because I know the suffering, and I was never made to sing of suffering.

I hate it, and I want to sing the love songs of joy and pleasure.