If my last novel [Rooftop Soliloquy] was about a heroic man who lived the perfect life in a perfect world, and who met no tragic fate at the end but concluded his adventures in happiness—embracing a woman in the moonlight, he delivers a final soliloquy to praise his poetic adventures and the beauty of life—it was because my own life then was so good, my own adventures were so poetic. It was the climax of my life, there was no reason for a tragic flaw.
I was quite young then (thirty-two), and the city of Paris was my kingdom. By this time, Paris had opened itself to me like a blossoming flower inviting me to feast of its nectar; the people of Paris were all on my side. I saw no downfall in sight for myself. Every street I turned down, in every neighborhood, I would hear:
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