The Only Safe Enemy Was A Headless

Never The Less, At The Age Of Fifteen, Having Never Seen A Writer, A Poet, A Publisher Or A Magazine Editor, And Having Only The Vaguest Ideas Of Procedure, I Began Working On The Profession I Had Chosen.

But The Idea Of A Man Making His Living By Writing Seemed, In That Hardy Environment, So Fantastic That Even Today I Am Sometimes Myself Assailed By A Feeling Of Unreality.

The Printed Page Was Like Wine To Me.

Aye, You White Dog, You Are Like All Your Race; But To A Black Man Gold Can Never Pay For Blood.

I Have No Fear Of The Hereafter. An Orthodox Hell Could Hardly Be More Torture Than My Life Has Been.