Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
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.
Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
I hate birthdays.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
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
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
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.
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