Intelligent Men Are Cruel. Stupid Men Are

I Write For No Other Purpose Than To Add To The Beauty That Now Belongs To Me. I Write A Book For No Other Reason Than To Add Three Or Four Hundred Acres To My Magnificent Estate.

The Pitch To Which He Was Aroused Was Tremendous. All The Fighting Blood Of His Breed Was Up In Him And Surging Through Him. This Was Living., Though He Did Not Know It. He Was Realizing His Own Meaning In The World; He Was Doing That For Which He Was Made.... He Was Justifying His Existence, Than Which Life Can Do No Greater; For Life Achieves Its Summit When It Does To The Uttermost That Which It Was Equipped To Do.

The Ghostly Winter Silence Had Given Way To The Great Spring Murmur Of Awakening Life.

The Greatest Of The Arts Is The Conquering Of Men.

Not All The Monsters Have Fangs.