Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.

The word is too weak. There is no word in the language strong enough to describe my feelings.

He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive.

For the pride of trace and trail was his, and sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his work.

To have a full stomach, to daze lazily in the sunshine--such things were remuneration in full for his adors and toils, while his ardors and toils were in themselves self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is always happy when it is expressing itself.

He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread.

It is so much easier to live placidly and complacently. Of course, to live placidly and complacently is not to live at all.