What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.

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

These critics who crucify me do not guess the littlest part of my sincerity. They must be burned in a blaze. I cannot learn from them.

I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness - under the light of the western skies.

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end

I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.

The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.