So life went on from year to year, but in my heart I hated my lot.

While I was still a boy there rose up in me a desire--not to copy what others had written, but to write what others should copy.

I became a dreamer of dreams.
Walking at night beneath the palm-trees upon the banks of the Nile I watched the moon shining upon the waters, and in its rays I seemed to see many beautiful things.

Pictures appeared there which were different from any that I saw in the world of men, although in them were men and women and even gods.
Of these pictures I made stories in my heart and at last, although that was not for some years, I began to write these stories down in my spare hours.

My sisters found me doing so and told my father, who scolded me for such foolishness which he said would never furnish me with bread and beer.