The Printed Page Was Like Wine To

Money And Muscle, That's What I Want; To Be Able To Do Any Damned Thing I Want And Get Away With It. Money Won't Do That Altogether, Because If A Man Is A Weakling, All The Money In The World Won't Enable Him To Soak An Enemy Himself; On The Other Hand, Unless He Has Money He May Not Be Able To Get Away With It.

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

Civilized Men Are More Discourteous Than Savages Because They Know They Can Be Impolite Without Having Their Skulls Split, As A General Thing.

I Never Saw A Man Fight As Conan Fought. He Put His Back To The Courtyard Wall, And Before They Overpowered Him The Dead Men Were Strewn In Heaps Thigh-deep About Him. But At Last They Dragged Him Down, A Hundred Against One.

Musings The Little Poets Sing Of Little Things: Hope, Cheer, And Faith, Small Queens And Puppet Kings; Lovers Who Kissed And Then Were Made As One, And Modest Flowers Waving In The Sun. The Mighty Poets Write In Blood And Tears And Agony That, Flame-like, Bites And Sears. They Reach Their Mad Blind Hands Into The Night, To Plumb Abysses Dead To Human Sight; To Drag From Gulfs Where Lunacy Lies Curled, Mad, Monstrous Nightmare Shapes To Blast The World. [click On The Thumbnail By Jack "king" Kirby]