The only time I’m pleased with myself is when I’m exhausted and shaking from having written too much.
Imagination is so much harder to face than reality.
figures are clear and open, they hold nothing hidden, no secret they will not tell.
Pity is something only weakness wants.
People who know their worth can live austerely; it’s the people nagged by the gnawing knowledge of their own cheapness who have that eternal necessity for submerging themselves in what they feel is superlative in material things, as if fine possessions could make them fine.
There’s less skill and more plain hard work to writing than anyone except a writer thinks.