There was never an angler who lived but that there was a fish capable of taking the conceit out of him.

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

Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.

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

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

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

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