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Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

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
Spell
Digging
Spells
Coal
Sweat
Blood
Writing
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More quotes by Zane Grey

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I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
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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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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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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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Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
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Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
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This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
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Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.
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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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The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
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Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.
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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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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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What is writing but an expression of my own life?
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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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I will see this game of life out to its bitter end
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If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.
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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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Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.
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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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