Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
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.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
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.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
I need this wild life, this freedom.