Then one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.

Too much is written by the men who can't write about the men who do write.

Life is so short. I would rather sing one song than interpret the thousand.

But, – and there it is, – we want to live and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens that it is the nature of life to live and move, to want to live and move. If it were not for this, life would be dead. It is because of this life that is in you that you dream of your immortality.

San Francisco is gone. Nothing remains of it but memories.

The hand descended. Nearer and nearer it came. It touched the ends of his upstanding hair. He shrank down under it. It followed down after him, pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering. He still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at the hands of men.

A good joke will sell quicker than a good poem, and, measured in sweat and blood, will bring better remuneration.