I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.

The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do 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.

Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

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

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

Love of man for woman – love of woman for man. That’s the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.

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

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

I hate birthdays.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

I need this wild life, this freedom.

It was a decent New Year’s, but it took a million officers to make it so.

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

I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.

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

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

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

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

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.

I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.

I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.

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

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

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.

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

I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.