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

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

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

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

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

People live for the dream in their hearts. And I have yet to know anyone who has not some secret dream, some hope, however dim, some storied wall to look at in the dusk, some painted window leading to the soul.