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.

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.