Fishing Is A Condition Of Mind Wherein

The Indian Story Has Never Been Written. Maybe I Am The Man To Do It.

These Critics Who Crucify Me Do Not Guess The Littlest Part Of My Sincerity. They Must Be Burned In A Blaze. I Cannot Learn From Them.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

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.

I Love My Work But Do Not Know How I Write It.