When I was very young I yearned to know other people's opinion of me and
all my works; now, my chief aim is to avoid hearing it. In those days,
had any one told me there was half a line about myself in a newspaper, I
should have tramped London to obtain that publication. Now, when I see a
column headed with my name, I hurriedly fold up the paper and put it away
from me, subduing my natural curiosity to read it by saying to myself,
"Why should you? It will only upset you for the day."

In my cubhood I possessed a friend. Other friends have come into my life
since--very dear and precious friends--but they have none of them been to
me quite what this friend was. Because he was my first friend, and we
lived together in a world that was much bigger than this world--more full
of joy and of grief; and, in that world, we loved and hated deeper than
we love and hate in this smaller world that I have come to dwell in
since.

He also had the very young man's craving to be criticised, and we made it
our custom to oblige each other. We did not know then that what we
meant, when we asked for "criticism," was encouragement. We thought that
we were strong--one does at the beginning of the battle, and that we
could bear to hear the truth.

Accordingly, each one pointed out to the other one his errors, and this
task kept us both so busy that we had never time to say a word of praise
to one another. That we each had a high opinion of the other's talents I
am convinced, but our heads were full of silly saws. We said to
ourselves: "There are many who will praise a man; it is only his friend
who will tell him of his faults." Also, we said: "No man sees his own
shortcomings, but when these are pointed out to him by another he is
grateful, and proceeds to mend them."