Writing Was Like Digging Coal. I Sweat

I Arise Full Of Eagerness And Energy, Knowing Well What Achievement Lies Ahead Of Me.

What Is Writing But An Expression Of My Own Life?

I Confess That Reading Proofs Is A Pleasure. It Stimulates And Inspires Me.

Men May Rise On Stepping Stones Of Their Dead Selves To Higher Things.

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.