It Was A Decent New

There Are Hours When I Must Force The Novel Out Of My Mind And Be Interested In The Children.

Never Insult Seven Men When All Your Packing Is A Six-shooter.

No One Connected Intimately With A Writer Has Any Appreciation Of His Temperament, Except To Think Him Overdoing Everything.

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.

Writing Was Like Digging Coal. I Sweat Blood. The Spell Is On Me.