Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
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.
Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.