Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
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.