This Motion-picture Muddle Had Distracted Me From

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

Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot Stand Life As It Is.

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

I Can Write Best In The Silence And Solitude Of The Night, When Everyone Has Retired.

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.