Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
Jealousy is an unjust and stifling thing.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.
It was a decent New Year’s, but it took a million officers to make it so.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
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 see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
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.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
Before exulatation had vanished, I felt as if I had been granted a marvellous privilege. Out of the inscrutable waters a beautiful fish had somehow leaped to show me fleetingly the life and spirit of his element.
Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.
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.
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.