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.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
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.