Quotes By Zane Grey

It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.

No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.

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 arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.

This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.

I hate birthdays.

I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.

I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.

Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.

I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.

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.

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.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.