One Man's Bane Is Another's Bliss.

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

While We May Open The Books Of The Past, We May But Grant Flying Glances Of The Future, Through The Mist That Veils It.

I Became A Writer In Spite Of My Environments.

Coming, As I Do, From Mountain Folk On One Side And Sea Followers On The Other, There Are Few Old Songs Of The Hills Or The Sea With Which I Am Not Familiar.

What Shall A Man Say When A Friend Has Vanished Behind The Doors Of Death? A Mere Tangle Of Barren Words, Only Words.