The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness - under the light of the western skies.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

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.