It is the nature of the human mind to convey its own character to whatever substance it conveys, whether it convey metaphysical impressions from itself to another mind, or literary compositions from one to another language.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.

You may write twenty lines one day--or even three like Euripides in three days--and a hundred lines in one more day--and yet on the hundred, may have been expended as much good work, as on the twenty and the three.

Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.

I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.