I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My

Men May Rise On Stepping Stones Of Their Dead Selves To Higher Things.

I Can Write Best In The Silence And Solitude Of The Night, When Everyone Has Retired.

Never Insult Seven Men When All Your Packing Is A Six-shooter.

I Hope I Have Found Myself, My Work, My Happiness - Under The Light Of The Western Skies.

These Critics Who Crucify Me Do Not Guess The Littlest Part Of My Sincerity. They Must Be Burned In A Blaze. I Cannot Learn From Them.