Light Black. From Pole To Pole.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

Was I Asleep? Had I Slept?

There Is No Use Indicting Words, They Are No Shoddier Than What They Peddle.

To Be An Artist Is To Fail, As No Other Dare Fail, That Failure Is His World And The Shrink From Desertion, Art And Craft, Good Housekeeping, Living.

I Had Little Talent For Happiness.