No Man Can Be Convinced When He

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.

Life Is But A Web Spun Of Ghosts And Dreams And Illusions.

I Know This: If Life Is Illusion, Then I Am No Less An Illusion, And Being Thus, The Illusion Is Real To Me. I Live, I Burn With Life, I Love, I Slay, And Am Content.

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.

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.