I love the flesh. I'm a pagan. “Who are they who speak evil of the clay? The very stars are made of clay like mine!” - Jack London

Then one can't make a living out of poetry?"
"Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.

Mercedes nursed a special grievance - the grievance of sex. She was pretty and soft, and had been chivalrously treated all her days. But the present treatment by her husband and brother was everything save chivalrous. It was her custom to be helpless. They complained. Upon which impeachment of what to her was her most essential sex pregorative, she made their lives unendurable.

But there were other forces at work in the cub, the greatest of which was growth. Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded disobedience...In the end, one day, fear and obedience were swept away by the rush of life, and the cub straddled and sprawled toward the entrance.