The Only Safe Enemy Was A Headless

It Seems To Me That Many Writers, By Virtue Of Environments Of Culture, Art And Education, Slip Into Writing Because Of Their Environments.

Aye, You White Dog, You Are Like All Your Race; But To A Black Man Gold Can Never Pay For Blood.

I Became A Writer In Spite Of My Environments.

There Comes, Even To Kings, The Time Of Great Weariness. Then The Gold Of The Throne Is Brass, The Silk Of The Palace Becomes Drab. The Gems In The Diadem And Upon The Fingers Of The Women Sparkle Drearily Like The Ice Of White Seas; The Speech Of Men Is As The Empty Rattle Of A Jester's Bell And The Feel Comes Of Things Unreal; Even The Sun Is Copper In The Sky And The Breath Of The Green Ocean Is No Longer Fresh.

It Is Better To Go In The Dark When The Road Must Pass A Lion And There Is No Other Road.