The Printed Page Was Like Wine To

It Is Better To Go In The Dark When The Road Must Pass A Lion And There Is No Other Road.

My Body Seems A Mere Encumbrance To Me; An Imbecillic Wagon, Hitched To The Horse Of Desire, Which Is The Soul.

It Is An Ill Thing To Meet A Man You Thought Dead In The Woodland At Dusk.

It Was No Ape, Neither Was It A Man. It Was Some Shambling Horror Spawned In The Mysterious, Nameless Jungles Of The South, Where Strange Life Teemed In The Reeking Rot Without The Dominance Of Man, And Drums Thundered In Temples That Had Never Known The Tread Of A Human Foot.

The Sea-road Is Good For Wanderers And Landless Men. There Is Quenching Of Thirst On The Grey Paths Of The Winds, And The Flying Clouds To Still The Sting Of Lost Dreams.