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

Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert

This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.

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.

Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end

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