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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
Stand
Death
Cannot
Life
Realism

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I need this wild life, this freedom.
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The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
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If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.
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I love my work but do not know how I write it.
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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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There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
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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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It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.
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There are always greater fish than you have caught, always the lure of greater task and achievement, always the inspiration to seek, to endure, to find.
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I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
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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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I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
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I will see this game of life out to its bitter end
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Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.
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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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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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What is writing but an expression of my own life?
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I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
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Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
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