This world, this universe which our senses feel, or our mind thinks, is but one atom, so to say, of the Infinite, projected on to the plane of consciousness; and within that narrow limit, defined by the network of consciousness, works our reason, and not beyond. Therefore, there must be some other instrument to take us beyond, and that instrument is called inspiration.
The world still wants its poet-priest, a reconciler, who shall not trifle with Shakspeare the player, nor shall grope in graves with Swedenborg the mourner; but who shall see, speak, and act, with equal inspiration. For knowledge will brighten the sunshine; right is more beautiful than private affection; and love is compatible with universal wisdom.
The urge to create a fictional narrative is a mysterious one, and when an idea comes, the writer's sense of what a story wants to be is only vaguely visible through the penumbra of inspiration.
When I Was 8 Years Old, I Became Depressed. I Kept Asking Why I Was Born This Way [without Arms And Legs]. I Also Worried About My Future. At The Age Of 10, I Tried To Commit Suicide Because I Felt Like Giving Up. But When I Imagined My Loving Parents Crying At My Grave, I Decided To Stay.