The Printed Page Was Like Wine To

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.

A Woman In Such An Emotional Tempest Is As Perilous As A Blind Cobra To Any About Her.

The Poem You Sent Me Was As Fiery And Virile As Anything You've Ever Written - Or Anybody Else, For That Matter. Especially The Second Part Went To My Brain Like The Flaming Liquor Of Insanity. No One Else Besides Jack London Has The Power To Move Me Just That Way.

In The Hill Country, Civilization Steals In Last, And The People Retain Much Of The Crude But Vigorous Mode Of Expression Of The Colonial Days And Earlier.

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