The Word Is Too Weak.

When, On The Still Cold Nights, He Pointed His Nose At A Star And Howled Long And Wolf-like, It Was His Ancestors, Dead And Dust, Pointing Nose At Star And Howling Down Through The Centuries And Through Him. And His Cadences Were Their Cadences, The Cadences Which Voiced Their Woe And What To Them Was The Meaning Of The Stillness, And The Cold, And Dark.

But, – And There It Is, – We Want To Live And Move, Though We Have No Reason To, Because It Happens That It Is The Nature Of Life To Live And Move, To Want To Live And Move. If It Were Not For This, Life Would Be Dead. It Is Because Of This Life That Is In You That You Dream Of Your Immortality.

Pray Do Not Interrupt Me," He Wrote. "i Am Smiling.

Too Much Is Written By The Men Who Can't Write About The Men Who Do Write.

Avoid The Unhappy Ending, The Harsh, The Brutal, The Tragic, The Horrible -- If You Care To See In Print Things You Write. (in This Connection Don't Do As I Do, But Do As I Say.