I Could Write Stories Just As Rotten.

Beast?" Jane Murmured. "then God Make Me A Beast; For, Man Or Beast, I Am Yours.

I Write To Escape ... To Escape Poverty.

This Was Life! Ah, How He Loved It! Civilization Held Nothing Like This In Its Narrow And Circumscribed Sphere, Hemmed In By Restrictions And Conventionalities. Even Clothes Were A Hindrance And A Nuisance. At Last He Was Free. He Had Not Realized What A Prisoner He Had Been.

I Do Not Believe That I Am Made Of The Stuff Which Constitutes Heroes, Because, In All Of The Hundreds Of Instances That My Voluntary Acts Have Placed Me Face To Face With Death, I Cannot Recall A Single One Where Any Alternative Step To That I Took Occurred To Me Until Many Hours Later.

Am I Alive And A Reality, Or Am I But A Dream?