I like to breathe in on the stairs this odor of quiet and order, of cleanliness and respectable domesticity. There is something in it that touches me in spite of my hatred for all it stands for. I like to step across the threshold of my room where all this suddenly stops; where, instead, cigar ash and wine bottles lie among the heaped-up books and there is nothing but disorder and neglect; and where everything-books, manuscript, thoughts-is marked and saturated with the plight of lonely men, with the problem of existence and with the yearning after a new orientation for an age that has lost its bearings.
Atsegin zait, burgesiari gorroto badiot ere, xamur zaidan isiltasunezko, ordenazko, garbitasunezko, zintzotasun eta mantsotasunezko usain hau eskaileratan, atsegin zait gero gelako ataria igarotzea han bukatzen baita guzti hori, han baitaude liburu pilen artean zigarro hondakinak eta ardo botilak, han dena enasa arrotz eta zarpail baita, eta dena, liburu, eskuizkribu, pentsamendu bakartiaren premiaz, gizon izatearen gorapiloaz, zentzurik gabe bihurturiko giza bizitzarentzat zentzu berriaren irrikiaz gurutzaturik baitago.