The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.