The Printed Page Was Like

Life Is But A Web Spun Of Ghosts And Dreams And Illusions.

What Is Death But A Traversing Of Eternities And A Crossing Of Cosmic Oceans?

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.

Musings The Little Poets Sing Of Little Things: Hope, Cheer, And Faith, Small Queens And Puppet Kings; Lovers Who Kissed And Then Were Made As One, And Modest Flowers Waving In The Sun. The Mighty Poets Write In Blood And Tears And Agony That, Flame-like, Bites And Sears. They Reach Their Mad Blind Hands Into The Night, To Plumb Abysses Dead To Human Sight; To Drag From Gulfs Where Lunacy Lies Curled, Mad, Monstrous Nightmare Shapes To Blast The World. [click On The Thumbnail By Jack "king" Kirby]

I Had Neither Expert Aid Nor Advice. I Studied No Courses In Writing; Until A Year Or So Ago, I Never Read A Book By Anybody Advising Writers How To Write.