In the perturbed and fitful nights of anguish, in the long monotonous days of pain, it is myself I blame.

I blame myself for allowing an intellectual friendship, a friendship whose primary aim was not the creation and contemplation of beautiful things, entirely to dominate my life.

From the very first there was too wide a gap between us.

You had been idle at your school, worse than idle[41] at your university.

You did not realise that an artist, and especially such an artist as I am, one, that is to say, the quality of whose work depends on the intensification of personality, requires an intellectual atmosphere, quiet, peace, and solitude.