I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
It was a decent New Year’s, but it took a million officers to make it so.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
I did not have one bad spell during writing – an unprecedented record.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I hate birthdays.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
I need this wild life, this freedom.
Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
