On An Exhausted Field, Only Weeds Grow.

In The Presence Of The Storm, Thunderbolts, Hurricane, Rain, Darkness, And The Lions, Which Might Be Concealed But A Few Paces Away, He Felt Disarmed And Helpless.

This Homage Has Been Rendered Not To Me - For The Polish Soil Is Fertile And Does Not Lack Better Writers Than Me - But To The Polish Achievement, The Polish Genius.

There Is Probably No Greater Idler Than Myself. And I Would Consider Myself A Lazy-bones If I Did Not Write So Many Volumes, And If I Did Not Admire My Diligence Once I Begin Writing.

I Know From Experience That To One Who Thinks Much And Feels Deeply, It Often Seems That He Has Only To Put Down His Thoughts And Feelings In Order To Produce Something Altogether Out Of The Common; Yet As Soon As He Sets To Work He Falls Into A Certain Mannerism Of Style And Common Phraseology; His Thoughts Do Not Come Spontaneously, And One Might Almost Say That It Is Not The Mind That Directs The Pen, But The Pen Leads The Mind Into Common, Empty Artificiality.

But I Think Happiness Springs From Another Source, A Far Deeper One That Doesn't Depend On Will Because It Comes From Love.