Full Many A Flower Is Born To

Imagine Some Foul And Putrid Corpse That Has Lain Rotting And Decomposing In The Grave, A Jelly-like Mass Of Liquid Corruption. Imagine Such A Corpse A Prey To Flames, Devoured By The Fire Of Burning Brimstone And Giving Off Dense Choking Fumes Of Nauseous Loathsome Decomposition. And Then Imagine This Sickening Stench, Multiplied A Millionfold And A Millionfold Again From The Millions Upon Millions Of Fetid Carcasses Massed Together In The Reeking Darkness, A Huge And Rotting Human Fungus. Imagine All This, And You Will Have Some Idea Of The Horror Of The Stench Of Hell.

Frequent And Violent Temptations Were A Proof That The Citadel Of The Soul Had Not Fallen And That The Devil Raged To Make It Fall.

[a Writer Is] A Priest Of Eternal Imagination, Transmuting The Daily Bread Of Experience Into The Radiant Body Of Everliving Life.

I Am Tomorrow, Or Some Future Day, What I Establish Today. I Am Today What I Established Yesterday Or Some Previous Day.

The Important Thing Is Not What We Write But How We Write, And In My Opinion The Modern Writer Must Be An Adventurer Above All, Willing To Take Every Risk, And Be Prepared To Founder In His Effort If Need Be. In Other Words We Must Write Dangerously