Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

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.

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.

Fishing is a condition of mind wherein you cannot possibly have a bad time.

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

Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.

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