“There is, of course,
always the personal satisfaction of writing down one's experiences so they may
be saved, caught and pinned under glass, hoarded against the winter of
forgetfulness. Time has been cheated a little, at least in one's own life, and
a personal, trivial immortality of an old self assured. And there is another
personal satisfaction: that of the people who like to recount their adventures,
the diary-keepers, the story-tellers, the letter-writers, a strange race of
people who feel half cheated of an experience unless it is retold. It does not
really exist until it is
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