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“We make patterns of pretty words?”
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“I’m writing too much here.”
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“I’ve a thousand things to do. I’m so busy I can’t begin…”
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“I may have found my mine this time I think. I may get all my gold out.”
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“At any rate the reading for this blessed book is a great source of delight to me.”
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“I like being natural, & talking nonsense if I’ve a mind”
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“I don’t like being in any way deflected from my comfortable ways, when it comes to writing.”
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“Undoubtedly my chief prop is my writing, which cant fail me here or in…”
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“So in spite of a clouded brain, upstairs, fetch the books, & begin”
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This year is almost certainly bound to be the most eventful in the whole of our (recorded) career.
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I dont know if this is my last chance writing, or …
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unable to do anything, tormented by the desire to do everything
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hardly any time left for personal work
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unable to settle in; therefore I write diary [sic.]
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Yet I really must write a book about facts once in a way. And I cant keep grinding at fiction, which however goes easier this last lap than before.
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Nothing runs away with time like these house dreams … This is for the eternal book.
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I could write something much better, if I gave up a little more time to it.
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so never, never stop working with brains or fingers or toes till your limbs fly asunder & the heart sprays off into dust
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Evidently there is a taste in boots.
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Thus I can realize my boyhood dreams of writing a serial novel