I do not know, of Darrell Standing's experience, these things of which I write and which I have dug from out my store-houses of subconsciousness.

I, Darrell Standing, born in Minnesota and soon to die by the rope in California, surely never loved daughters of kings in the courts of kings; nor fought cutlass to cutlass on the swaying decks of ships; nor drowned in the spirit-rooms of ships, guzzling raw liquor to the wassail-shouting and death-singing of seamen, while the ship lifted and crashed on the black-toothed rocks and the water bubbled overhead, beneath, and all about.
Such things are not of Darrell Standing's experience in the world.

Yet I, Darrell Standing, found these things within myself in solitary in San Quentin by means of mechanical self-hypnosis.

No more were these experiences Darrell Standing's than was the word "Samaria" Darrell Standing's when it leapt to his child lips at sight of a photograph.
One cannot make anything out of nothing.

In solitary I could not so make thirty-five pounds of dynamite.