I Did Not Have One Bad Spell

Writing Was Like Digging Coal. I Sweat Blood. The Spell Is On Me.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

The Indian Story Has Never Been Written. Maybe I Am The Man To Do It.

I Arise Full Of Eagerness And Energy, Knowing Well What Achievement Lies Ahead Of Me.

This Motion-picture Muddle Had Distracted Me From My Writing.