Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
The narrator finds that as a maturing character grows in stature before her friends that she sees less stature while evaluating herself.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
The whole scene impressed Venters as a wild, austere, and mighty manifestation of nature. And as it somehow reminded him of his prospect in life, so it suddenly resembled the woman near him, only in her there were greater beauty and peril, a mystery more unsolvable, and something nameless that numbed his heart and dimmed his eye.
Mister Hawe, you come along, not satisfied with ropin?.
There are always greater fish than you have caught, always the lure
My God! whispered the other, understanding fully at last.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
No nerve, hey? Not half a man!... Buster Jack, why don't you finish game? Make up for your low-down tricks. At the last try to be worthy of your dad. In his day he was a real man.... Let him have the consolation that you faced Hell-Bent Wade an' died in your boots!
These critics who crucify me do not guess the littlest part of my sincerity. They must be burned in a blaze. I cannot learn from them.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
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.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.
Pride would never be her ally.
We'll use a signal I have tried and found far-reaching and easy to yell. Waa-hoo!
Instantly a thick blackness seemed to enfold her and silence as of a dead world settled down upon her. Drowsy as she was she could not close her eyes nor refrain from listening. Darkness and silence were tangible things. She felt them. And they seemed suddenly potent with magic charm to still the tumult of her, to sooth and rest, to create thought she had never thought before. Rest was more than selfish indulgence. Loneliness was necessary to gain conciseness of the soul.
Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.
Recipe For Greatness - To bear up under loss; To fight the bitterness of defeat and the weakness of grief; To be victor over anger; To smile when tears are close; To resist disease and evil men and base instincts; To hate hate and to love love; To go on when it would seen good to die; To look up with unquenchable faith in something ever more about to be. That is what any man can do, and be great.
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.