“The scab is a traitor to his God, his mother, and his class.” — Jack London

Do you know the only value life has is what life puts on itself?

I write for no other purpose than to add to the beauty that now belongs to me. I write a book for no other reason than to add three or four hundred acres to my magnificent estate.

San Francisco is gone. Nothing remains of it but memories.

One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself.