Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot

What Is Writing But An Expression Of My Own Life?

Men May Rise On Stepping Stones Of Their Dead Selves To Higher Things.

I Can Write Best In The Silence And Solitude Of The Night, When Everyone Has Retired.

It Was A Decent New Year's, But It Took A Million Officers To Make It So.

I Must Go Deeper And Even Stronger Into My Treasure Mine And Stint Nothing Of Time, Toil, Or Torture.