I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

A good rule of angling philosophy is not to interfere with any fishermans ways of being happy, unless you want to be hated.

Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

Love of man for woman--love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.

Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.

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

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