He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time.
Jack LondonHis bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him. He had forgotten how to shift for himself. The night yawned about him.
Jack LondonThen one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.
Jack London