I Need This Wild Life, This Freedom.

Every Once In A While I Feel The Tremendous Force Of The Novel. But It Does Not Stay With Me.

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

I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My Head Boils. My Feet Are Cold. But I Am Not Aware Of Any Weakness.

Before Exulatation Had Vanished, I Felt As If I Had Been Granted A Marvellous Privilege. Out Of The Inscrutable Waters A Beautiful Fish Had Somehow Leaped To Show Me Fleetingly The Life And Spirit Of His Element.

Work Is My Salvation. It Changes My Moods.