|Born||Pearl Zane Grey
January 31, 1872
Zanesville, Ohio, United States
|Died||October 23, 1939
Altadena, California, United States
|Resting place||Lackawaxen and Union Cemetery, Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania|
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
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.
It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.
I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
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 am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
Love of man for woman – love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
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.