The world is full of stories and many of the stories are true. But they are not true enough. An artistic pattern comes between the teller of the tale and his reality, or a vague fear of stupid and malicious comment or--especially in America--a desire to avoid singularity. Yet, somehow, we must master life or it will end by destroying us. We can master it only by understanding it and we can understand it only by telling each other the quite naked and, if need be, the devastating truth.
autiful unselfishness and courage or his tireless devotion to the things of the mind. In later years I often found myself at variance with him in matters of opinion and belief; yet in face of his unfaltering devotion I was always consoled by the thought that I have scarcely a sound interest in literature or philosophy the impulse toward which had not come to me from his teaching and from his example...
He completed the course of the Royal Realschule at nineteen. He was too uncertain of himself to insist on prolonging his studies at the university; he already loved my mother and so he entered a well-known house of woolen manufacturers. By this time his foster-mother was hopelessly insane and his foster-father had fallen under the influence of an inferior woman. He had no real home. And so his request to be set up in business and to marry was readily granted. At twenty-three he was a father.
I often reflect upon his tragic youth. He was only a boy, crude, passionate, impulsive. He disliked his bus
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