It Was A Splendid Summer Morning And

The Fear Of Death Is For All Of Us Everywhere, But For The Great Intelligence Of The Opium Eater It Is Beautifully Narrowed Into The Crux Of Drugs.

A Collection Of Short Stories Is Generally Thought To Be A Horrendous Clinker; An Enforced Courtesy For The Elderly Writer Who Wants To Display The Trophies Of His Youth, Along With His Trout Flies.

There Isn't A King Or A Merchant Prince In The Whole World That I Envy, For I Always Knew I Was Born To Be A Child Of Destiny And That I Was Never Meant To Wring My Living From Detestable, Low, Degrading, Mean And Ordinary Kinds Of Business.

Novels Are About Men And Women And Children And Dogs, Not Politics.

Then It Is Dark; It Is A Night Where Kings In Golden Suits Ride Elephants Over The Mountains.