It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.

No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

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.

Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

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

I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.