All the stories I would like to write persecute me. When I am in my chamber, it seems as if they are all around me, like little devils, and while one tugs at my ear, another tweaks my nose, and each says to me, 'Sir, write me, I am beautiful.
There is a kind of perverse unity forming among us, born, I think, of the discontent of all classes of people with the endless frustration of life.