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

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

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

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

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.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.