Life Is But A Web Spun Of

There Comes, Even To Kings, The Time Of Great Weariness. Then The Gold Of The Throne Is Brass, The Silk Of The Palace Becomes Drab. The Gems In The Diadem And Upon The Fingers Of The Women Sparkle Drearily Like The Ice Of White Seas; The Speech Of Men Is As The Empty Rattle Of A Jester's Bell And The Feel Comes Of Things Unreal; Even The Sun Is Copper In The Sky And The Breath Of The Green Ocean Is No Longer Fresh.

Aye, You White Dog, You Are Like All Your Race; But To A Black Man Gold Can Never Pay For Blood.

I Have Not Been A Success, And Probably Never Will Be.

Let Me Live Deep While I Live; Let Me Know The Rich Juices Of Red Meat & Stinging Wine On My Palate, The Hot Embrace Of White Arms, The Mad Exultation Of Battle When The Blue Blades Flame Crimson, And I Am Content"......conan The Cimmerian.

But The Idea Of A Man Making His Living By Writing Seemed, In That Hardy Environment, So Fantastic That Even Today I Am Sometimes Myself Assailed By A Feeling Of Unreality.