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

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

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

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.

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

What is writing but an expression of my own life?