Reading Chekhov was just like the angels singing to me.
Ever since I was first read to, then started reading to myself, there has never been a line read that I didn't hear. As my eyes followed the sentence, a voice was saying it silently to me. It isn't my mother's voice, or the voice of any person I can identify, certainly not my own. It is human, but inward, and it is inwardly that I listen to it. It is to me the voice of the story or the poem itself.
Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories.
Learning stamps you with its moments. Childhood's learning is made up of moments. It isn't steady. It's a pulse.
I think that as you learn more about writing you learn to be direct.
Every story teaches you how to write that story but not the next story.
When I read, I hear what's on the page. I don't know whose voice it is, but some voice is reading to me, and when I write my own stories, I hear it, too.
At the time of writing, I don't write for my friends or myself either; I write for it, for the pleasure of it.
Beware of a man with manners.
What we know about writing the novel is the novel.
A short story is confined to one mood, to which everything in the story pertains. Characters, setting, time, events, are all subject to the mood. And you can try more ephemeral, more fleeting things in a story - you can work more by suggestion - than in a novel. Less is resolved, more is suggested, perhaps.
Writers and travelers are mesmerized alike by knowing of their destinations.
Fantasy is no good unless the seed it springs from is a truth, a truth about human beings.
Children, like animals use all their senses to discover the world. Then artists come along and discover it the same way...Or now and then we'll hear from an artisit who's never lost it.
I believe in it, and I trust it too and treasure it above everything, the personal, the personal, the personal! I put my faith in it not only as the source, the ground of meaning in art, in life, but as the meaning itself.
To open up the new, to look back on the old may bring forth like discoveries in the practice of art.
Writing fiction has developed in me an abiding respect for the unknown in a human lifetime and a sense of where to look for the threads, how to follow, how to connect, find in the thick of the tangle what clear line persists.
Making reality real is art's responsibility.
I learned quickly enough when to click the shutter, but what I was becoming aware of more slowly was a story-writer's truth: The thing to wait on, to reach for, is the moment in which people reveal themselves... I learned from my own pictures, one by one, and had to; for I think we are the breakers of our own hearts.
Every story teaches me how to write it. Unfortunately, it doesn't teach me how to write the next one.
Through travel I first became aware of the outside world; it was through travel that I found my own introspective way into becoming a part of it.
Is there any sleeping person you can be entirely sure you have not misjudged?
I'm a great reader that never has time to read.
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