I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My

No One Connected Intimately With A Writer Has Any Appreciation Of His Temperament, Except To Think Him Overdoing Everything.

I See So Much More Than I Used To See. The Effect Has Been To Depress And Sadden And Hurt Me Terribly.

Today I Began The Novel That I Determined To Be Great.

I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My Head Boils. My Feet Are Cold. But I Am Not Aware Of Any Weakness.

I Can Write Best In The Silence And Solitude Of The Night, When Everyone Has Retired.