If I Fished Only To

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

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

This Motion-picture Muddle Had Distracted Me From My Writing.

Work Is My Salvation. It Changes My Moods.

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