This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end