Far away Tongariro! Green - white thundering Athabasca river of New Zealand! I vowed I would come again down across the Pacific to fish in the swift cold waters of this most beautiful and famous of trout streams. It is something to have striven. It is much to have kept your word.

I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.

There was never an angler who lived but that there was a fish capable of taking the conceit out of him.

This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?