Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.
The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
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.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.