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

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
Thinking
Intimately
Temperament
Appreciation
Connected
Except
Writer
Everything
Think
Overdoing

More quotes by Zane Grey

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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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The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.
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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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Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrowed that yet.
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Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
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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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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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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 can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.
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I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
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Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.
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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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The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
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I love my work but do not know how I write it.
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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.
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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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There was never an angler who lived but that there was a fish capable of taking the conceit out of him.
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This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
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I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.
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