What is writing but an expression of my own life?

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.

Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.

Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.

I hate birthdays.

I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.

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.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.

I love my work but do not know how I write it.

I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.