Action Is Consolatory. It Is The Enemy

He Has To Live In The Midst Of The Incomprehensible, Which Is Also Detestable.

Reality, As Usual, Beats Fiction Out Of Sight.

The Dreams Of Men, The Seed Of Commonwealth, The Germs Of Empires.

A Writer Without Interest Or Sympathy For The Foibles Of His Fellow Man Is Not Conceivable As A Writer.

The East Wind, An Interloper In The Dominions Of Westerly Weather, Is An Impassive-faced Tyrant With A Sharp Poniard Held Behind His Back For A Treacherous Stab.