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

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

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

I need this wild life, this freedom.

I love my work but do not know how I write it.

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

Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.