Writing Is Conscience, Scruple, And

It Is Hideous And Coarse To Assume That We Can Do Something For Others-and It Is Vile Not To Endeavor To Do It.

What Has A Writer To Be Bombastic About? Whatever Good A Man May Write Is The Consequence Of Accident, Luck, Or Surprise, And Nobody Is More Surprised Than An Honest Writer When He Makes A Good Phrase Or Says Something Truthful.

When One Realizes That His Life Is Worthless He Either Commits Suicide Or Travels.

It Is Very Perplexing How An Intrepid Frontier People, Who Fought A Wilderness, Floods, Tornadoes, And The Rockies, Cower Before Criticism, Which Is Regarded As A Malignant Tumor In The Imagination.

Evil, Which Is Our Companion All Our Days, Is Not To Be Treated As A Foe. It Is Wrong To Cocker Vice, But We Grow Narrow And Pithless If We Are Furtive About It, For This Is At Best A Pretense, And The Sage Knows Good And Evil Are Kindred. The Worst Of Men Harm Others, And The Best Injure Themselves.