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Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.

Zane Grey

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Zane Grey
Age: 67 †
Born: 1872
Born: January 31
Died: 1939
Died: October 23
Author
Baseball Player
Dentist
Film Producer
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Zanesville
Ohio
Cannot
Life
Realism
Stand
Death

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I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
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Love of man for woman--love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.
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A good rule of angling philosophy is not to interfere with any fishermans ways of being happy, unless you want to be hated.
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Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.
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Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
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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.
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Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.
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I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
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Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
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Before exulatation had vanished, I felt as if I had been granted a marvellous privilege. Out of the inscrutable waters a beautiful fish had somehow leaped to show me fleetingly the life and spirit of his element.
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Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
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I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
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This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
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Far away Tongariro! Green - white thundering Athabasca river of New Zealand! I vowed I would come again down across the Pacific to fish in the swift cold waters of this most beautiful and famous of trout streams. It is something to have striven. It is much to have kept your word.
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Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert
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Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
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I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
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No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
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Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.
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I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness - under the light of the western skies.
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