Had it been my machine I'd have operated it with a carpenter's hammer.
The worst of it was that I was actually typing my manuscripts at the same time I was trying to master that machine.

It was a feat of physical endurance and a brain storm combined to type a thousand words, and I was composing thousands of words every day which just had to be typed for the waiting editors.
Oh, between the writing and the typewriting I was well a-weary.

I had brain and nerve fag, and body fag as well, and yet the thought of drink never suggested itself.

I was living too high to stand in need of an anodyne.

All my waking hours, except those with that infernal typewriter, were spent in a creative heaven.