Quotes from Zane Grey

A good rule of angling philosophy is not to interfere with any fishermans ways of being happy, unless you want to be hated.

I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.

Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.

Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.

This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.

Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.

I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness - under the light of the western skies.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

It was a decent New Year's, but it took a million officers to make it so.

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

I love my work but do not know how I write it.

dare we live for one another? Dare we be happy? Child, it's our only hope. Let us make our love atone for the hate of our fathers. We have been doomed by their sins. Not that...nor anythin' can keep us apart. I am a slayer of men, but I think God spoke to me today.

Her forefathers had been Vikings, savage chieftains who bore no cross and brooked no hindrance to their will.

The rugged fallow ground under her feet seemed to her to be a symbol of faith — faith that winter would come and pass — the spring sun and rain would burst the seeds of wheat — and another summer would see the golden fields of waving grain. If she did not live to see them, they would be there just the same; and so life and nature had faith in its promise. That strange whisper was to Lenore the whisper of God.

What's all the row over at Ben's? [Mrs. Ide] inquired, placidly, from her comfortable chair. Rustlers, cattle, foremen, sheriffs, and Heaven only knows what, replied Hettie, distractedly.

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

An awful sense of her deadness, of her soul-blighting selfishness, began to dawn upon her as something monstrous out of dim, gray obscurity.

You dream… or you're driven mad.

A man can die. He is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall, a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then he is sublime. Then he wrings respect from the souls of even his bitterest foes. Then he is avenged even in his death.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

Mister Hawe, you come along, not satisfied with ropin