Come What May, I Have Been Blest.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.