I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.
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.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
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.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
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.
The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
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.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
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.
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.
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 evil men and base instincts, to hate hate and to love love, to go on when it would seem good to die, to seek ever after the glory and the dream, to look up with unquenchable faith in something evermore about to be, that is what any man can do, and so be great.
Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.
I hate birthdays.
Love of man for woman - love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
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.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
More Zane Grey Quotations (Based on Topics)
Life - Man - Writing - Love - Nature - Woman - Dreams - Work & Career - Liberty & Freedom - Success - Hatred - Silence - Energy - Pleasure - Death & Dying - Obstacles - Mystery - Anger - Time - View All Zane Grey Quotations
Malcolm Gladwell - Victor Hugo - Neale Donald Walsch - Hans Christian Andersen - Brian Tracy - Phil Crosby - Michael Crichton - Ken Follett - Jules Verne - Ian Fleming