The Printed Page Was Like Wine To

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

It Is Not Pleasant To Come Upon Death In A Lonely Place At Midnight.

Civilized Men Are More Discourteous Than Savages Because They Know They Can Be Impolite Without Having Their Skulls Split, As A General Thing.

Over The Souls Of Men Spread The Condor Wings Of Colossal Monsters And All Manner Of Evil Things Prey Upon The Heart And Soul And Body Of Man. Yet It May Be In Some Far Day The Shadows Shall Fade And The Prince Of Darkness Be Chained Forever In His Hell. And Till Then Mankind Can But Stand Up Stoutly To The Monsters In His Own Heart And Without, And With The Aid Of God He May Yet Triumph.

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.