I Am Alone. There Is

The Priestess Of Artemis Took Hold Of Her Almost With The Violence Of A Lover, And Whisked Her Away Into A Languid Ecstasy Of Reverie. She Communicated Her Own Enthusiasm To The Girl, And Kept Her Mind Occupied With Dreams, Faery-fervid, Of Uncharted Seas Of Glory On Which Her Galleon Might Sail, Undiscovered Countries Of Spice And Sweetness, Eldorado And Utopia And The City Of God.

To Me A Book Is A Message From The Gods To Mankind; Or, If Not, Should Never Be Published At All. A Message From The Gods Should Be Delivered At Once. It Is Damnably Blasphemous To Talk About The Autumn Season And So On. How Dare The Author Or Publisher Demand A Price For Doing His Duty, The Highest And Most Honorable To Which A Man Can Be Called?

Those Magicians Who Object To The Use Of Blood, Have Endeavored To Replace It With Incense. But, The Bloody Sacrifice, Though More Dangerous, Is More Efficacious. And For Nearly All Purposes, Human Sacrifice Is The Best.

But Neither Europe Nor Africa Can Show Any Such Desolation As America. The Proudest, Stubbornest, Bitterest Peasant Of Deserted Spain, The Most Primitive And Superstitious Arab Of The Remotest Oases, Are A Little More Than Kin And Never Less Than Kind At Their Worst; Whereas In The United States One Is Almost Always Conscious Of An Instinctive Lack Of Sympathy And Understanding With Even The Most Charming And Cultured People.

To Me A Book Is A Message From The Gods To Mankind; Or, If Not, Should Never Be Published At All.