The Indian Story Has Never Been Written.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

There Was Never An Angler Who Lived But That There Was A Fish Capable Of Taking The Conceit Out Of Him.

Writing Was Like Digging Coal. I Sweat Blood. The Spell Is On Me.

Jealously Was An Unjust And Stifling Thing.

I See So Much More Than I Used To See. The Effect Has Been To Depress And Sadden And Hurt Me Terribly.