If I Fished Only To

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

What Is Writing But An Expression Of My Own Life?

Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot Stand Life As It Is.

Before Exulatation Had Vanished, I Felt As If I Had Been Granted A Marvellous Privilege. Out Of The Inscrutable Waters A Beautiful Fish Had Somehow Leaped To Show Me Fleetingly The Life And Spirit Of His Element.

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