A woman in such an emotional tempest is as perilous as a blind cobra to any about her.
My body seems a mere encumbrance to me; an imbecillic wagon, hitched to the horse of desire, which is the soul.
The only safe enemy was a headless enemy.
I see in the papers where Roy Guthrie committed suicide. Why, I wonder?
The printed page was like wine to me.
I am unable to rouse much interest in any highly civilized race, country or epoch, including this one.
Youngsters of this generation seem not quite so hazardous except in the way of mechanical speed, bad liquor and venereal diseases.
I’ll say one thing about an oil boom; it will teach a kid that Life’s a pretty rotten thing as quick as anything I can think of.
If I was wealthy I’d never do anything but poke around in ruined cities all over the world – and probably get snake-bit.
The poem you sent me was as fiery and virile as anything you’ve ever written – or anybody else, for that matter. Especially the second part went to my brain like the flaming liquor of insanity. No one else besides Jack London has the power to move me just that way.
What shall a man say when a friend has vanished behind the doors of Death? A mere tangle of barren words, only words.
We’re making tin gods out of those poor buffoons in Hollywood; I dote on movies and appreciate the scanty art therein but I consider the profession about the most debased and debasing I know.
I reckon if I ever marry, she will have to be a strong woman in a circus or something.
Don’t you think that as a people, Americans have less poetry, real poetry, in their souls than any other nations?
The sea-road is good for wanderers and landless men. There is quenching of thirst on the grey paths of the winds, and the flying clouds to still the sting of lost dreams.
I have no fear of the Hereafter. An orthodox hell could hardly be more torture than my life has been.
Coming, as I do, from mountain folk on one side and sea followers on the other, there are few old songs of the hills or the sea with which I am not familiar.
Every twinge of sensation, even of agony, was a negation of death.
All fled – all done, so lift me on the pyre – The Feast is over, and the lamps expire.
Break the skin of civilization and you find the ape, roaring and red-handed.