Writing Was Like Digging Coal. I Sweat

I Hope I Have Found Myself, My Work, My Happiness - Under The Light Of The Western Skies.

There Was Never An Angler Who Lived But That There Was A Fish Capable Of Taking The Conceit Out Of Him.

I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My Head Boils. My Feet Are Cold. But I Am Not Aware Of Any Weakness.

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

The Difficulty, The Ordeal, Is To Start.