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

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.

Before exulatation had vanished, I felt as if I had been granted a marvellous privilege. Out of the inscrutable waters a beautiful fish had somehow leaped to show me fleetingly the life and spirit of his element.

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.

No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.