Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
These critics who crucify me do not guess the littlest part of my sincerity. They must be burned in a blaze. I cannot learn from them.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
I need this wild life, this freedom.
It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.
I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
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.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
