Like All Harsh, Cold Men,

Above All, He Liked It That Everything Was One's Own Fault. There Was Only Oneself To Praise Or Blame. Luck Was A Servant And Not A Master. Luck Had To Be Accepted With A Shrug Or Taken Advantage Of Up To The Hilt. But It Had To Be Understood And Recognized For What It Was And Not Confused With A Faulty Appreciation Of The Odds, For, At Gambling, The Deadly Sin Is To Mistake Bad Play For Bad Luck. And Luck In All Its Moods Had To Be Loved And Not Feared

Surround Yourself With Human Beings, My Dear James. They Are Easier To Fight For Than Principles.

I Have Always Smoked And Drunk And Loved Too Much. In Fact I Have Lived Not Too Long But Too Much. One Day The Iron Crab Will Get Me. Then I Shall Have Died Of Living Too Much.

It Was The Same With The Whole Russian Machine. Fear Was The Impulse. For Them It Was Always Safer To Advance Than Retreat. Advance Against The Enemy And The Bullet Might Miss You. Retreat, Evade, Betray And The Bullet Would Never Miss.

The Gain To The Winner Is Always Less Than The Loss To The Loser.