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.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
Jealously was an unjust and stifling thing.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.