Any But The Most Brutish Of Men

It Seems To Me That Many Writers, By Virtue Of Environments Of Culture, Art And Education, Slip Into Writing Because Of Their Environments.

In This World Men Struggle And Suffer Vainly, Finding Pleasure Only In The Bright Madness Of Battle; Dying, Their Souls Enter A Gray Misty Realm Of Clouds And Icy Winds, To Wander Cheerlessly Throughout Eternity.

Man Is Still An Ape In That He Forgets What Is Not Ever Before His Eyes.

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

I Have Not Been A Success, And Probably Never Will Be.