Wits and swords are as straws against the wisdom of the Darkness...
For man’s only weapon is courage that flinches not from the gates of Hell itself, and against such not even the legions of Hell can stand.
I became a writer in spite of my environments.
But the idea of a man making his living by writing seemed, in that hardy environment, so fantastic that even today I am sometimes myself assailed by a feeling of unreality.
But whatever my failure, I have this thing to remember – that I was a pioneer in my profession, just as my grandfathers were in theirs, in that I was the first man in this section to earn his living as a writer.
I have not been a success, and probably never will be.
I have accomplished little enough, but such as it is, it is the result of my own efforts.
Civilization is a natural and inevitable consequence – whether good or evil I am not prepared to state.
A kingdom is not lost by a single defeat.
I don’t believe I ever saw an Oklahoman who wouldn’t fight at the drop of a hat – and frequently drop the hat himself.
My characters are more like men than these real men are, see. They’re rough and rude, they got hands and they got bellies. They hate and they lust; break the skin of civilization and you find the ape, roaring and red-handed.
What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky. The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing; Rush in and die, dogs – I was a man before I was a king.
Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars.
It seems to me that many writers, by virtue of environments of culture, art and education, slip into writing because of their environments.
When I cannot stand alone, it will be time to die.
Civilization is a network and a maze of precedences and custom.
Animals are neither gods nor fiends, but men in their way without the lust and greed of man.
The people among which I lived – and yet live, mainly – made their living from cotton, wheat, cattle, oil, with the usual percentage of business men and professional men.
But not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood.
In this world men struggle and suffer vainly, finding pleasure only in the bright madness of battle; dying, their souls enter a gray misty realm of clouds and icy winds, to wander cheerlessly throughout eternity.