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.
I need this wild life, this freedom.
Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrowed that yet.
When I envied a man's spurs then they were indeed worth coveting.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
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.
Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
It was the elision of the weaker element--the survival of the fittest; and some, indeed very many, mothers must lose their sons that way.
I hate birthdays.