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Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.
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.
I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
What is writing but an expression of my own life?
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
I hate birthdays.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
