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

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

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.

I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.