The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

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

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

There was never an angler who lived but that there was a fish capable of taking the conceit out of him.

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

This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.