In The Hill Country, Civilization

It Was No Ape, Neither Was It A Man. It Was Some Shambling Horror Spawned In The Mysterious, Nameless Jungles Of The South, Where Strange Life Teemed In The Reeking Rot Without The Dominance Of Man, And Drums Thundered In Temples That Had Never Known The Tread Of A Human Foot.

I Have Accomplished Little Enough, But Such As It Is, It Is The Result Of My Own Efforts.

I Became A Writer In Spite Of My Environments.

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.

One Objection I Have Heard Voiced To Works Of This Kind—dealing With Texas—is The Amount Of Gore Spilled Across The Pages. It Can Not Be Otherwise. In Order To Write A Realistic And True History Of Any Part Of The Southwest, One Must Narrate Such Things, Even At The Risk Of Monotony.