Love of man for woman – love of woman for man. That’s the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.
Far away Tongariro! Green – white thundering Athabasca river of New Zealand! I vowed I would come again down across the Pacific to fish in the swift cold waters of this most beautiful and famous of trout streams. It is something to have striven. It is much to have kept your word.
Fishing is a condition of the mind wherein one cannot have a bad time.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
A good rule of angling philosophy is not to interfere with any fishermans ways of being happy, unless you want to be hated.
Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
There was never an angler who lived but that there was a fish capable of taking the conceit out of him.
I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness – under the light of the western skies.
The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
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.
Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.