No Man Can Be Convinced When He

My Body Seems A Mere Encumbrance To Me; An Imbecillic Wagon, Hitched To The Horse Of Desire, Which Is The Soul.

It Was No Ape, Neither Was It A Man. It Was Some Shambling Horror Spawned In The Mysterious, Nameless Jungles Of The South, Where Strange Life Teemed In The Reeking Rot Without The Dominance Of Man, And Drums Thundered In Temples That Had Never Known The Tread Of A Human Foot.

I Became A Writer In Spite Of My Environments.

Man Is Better Without Knowledge Of Things To Come, For What Is To Be Will Be, And Man Can Neither Avert Nor Hasten. It Is Better To Go In The Dark When The Road Must Pass A Lion And There Is No Other Road.

All Fled—all Done, So Lift Me On The Pyre— The Feast Is Over, And The Lamps Expire.