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

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

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

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.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

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