Quotes from Zane Grey

Socialism reached into her mind, to be rejected. She had never understood it clearly, but it seemed to her a state of mind where dissatisfied men and women wanted to share what harder working or more gifted people possessed.

And as he lost that softness of nature, so he lost his fear of men. He would watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he would kill this great black-bearded rustler who had held a girl in bondage, who had used her to his infamous ends.

When I rode—I rode like the wind," she replied, "and never had time to stop for anything.

The blindness I mean is blindness that keeps you from seein' the truth.

With distrust came suspicion and with suspicion came fear, and with fear came hate--and these, in already distorted minds, inflamed a hell.

Get up, an' take my scarf," said Wade, "an' bandage these bullet-holes I got.

No nerve, hey? Not half a man!... Buster Jack, why don't you finish game? Make up for your low-down tricks. At the last try to be worthy of your dad. In his day he was a real man.... Let him have the consolation that you faced Hell-Bent Wade an' died in your boots!

Halt!..." Wade leaped at the white Belllounds. "If you run I'll break a leg for you--an' then I'll beat your miserable brains out!... Have you no sense? Can't you recognize what's comin'?... I'm goin' to kill you, Buster Jack!" "My God!" whispered the other, understanding fully at last.

I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

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.

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

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

I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.

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

Fishing is a condition of mind wherein you cannot possibly have a bad time.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.

I hate birthdays.

The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.

I wrote for nearly six hours. When I stopped, the dark mood, as if by magic, had folded its cloak and gone away.

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

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.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.