Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
A good rule of angling philosophy is not to interfere with any fishermans ways of being happy, unless you want to be hated.
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.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert
I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.
Jealously was an unjust and stifling thing.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
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