It is joy alone which appeals to my soul; the joy of life and beauty and love--I could sing the song of Apollo the Sun-God, and they try to force me to sing the song of the tortured Marsyas." This to me was his true and final confession.

His second fall after leaving prison had put him "at war with himself." This is, I think, the very heart of truth about his soul; the song of sorrow, of pity and renunciation was not his song, and the experience of suffering prevented him from singing the delight of life and the joy he took in beauty.

It never seemed to occur to him that he could reach a faith which should include both self-indulgence and renunciation in a larger acceptance of life.
In spite of his sunny nature he had a certain amount of jealousy and envy in him which was always brought to light by the popular success of those whom he had known and measured.

I remember his telling me once that he wrote his first play because he was annoyed at the way Pinero was being praised--"Pinero, who can't write at all: he is a stage-carpenter and nothing else.

His characters are made of dough; and never was there such a worthless style, or rather such a complete absence of style: he writes like a grocer's assistant." I noticed now that this trait of jealousy was stronger in him than ever.
One day I showed him an English illustrated paper which I had bought on my way to lunch.