I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I hate birthdays.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.
Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.