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Quotations by Zane Grey 29 Found Born: Wednesday, January 31, 1872 Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me. I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion. I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness. I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me. I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired. I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me. I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record. I hate birthdays. I love my work but do not know how I write it. I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture. I need this wild life, this freedom. I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly. I will see this game of life out to its bitter end. I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away. It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so. Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply. Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself. Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things. No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything. The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start. The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it. There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children. 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. This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing. Today I began the novel that I determined to be great. 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. Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me. |
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