Long, dark, and lovely she had been, in those days before her mind broke and the parts scattered and she let them go.
You got to be ready to die every day - then you got a chance.
Never. Never ask for what ought to be offered.
The heart makes dreams seem like ideas.
Pine trees with low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.
But I've been at writing long enough now to know that every three or four books I have to start a new direction.
Gail had a baby named Ned who was four months old, and a new look of baffled hurt, a left-behind sadness, like she saw that the great world kept spinning onward and away while she'd overnight become glued to her spot.
Fading light buttered the ridges until shadows licked them clean and they were lost to nightfall.
When I left Iowa, I definitely never wanted to stand in front of a group of academics again and see if they approved of me. I made up my mind to take my work to the actual reading public.
I said shut up once already, with my mouth.
I was not much used to women except for mothers. Everything I did, they did different.
A person has to show some spirit -- fate just about never shines on chickenshits.
I, myself, often wished to be spared the expectation of better days ahead or such.
I have a book in the pipeline of short stories. You want to hear an agent scream, say 'I'm thinking about doing a collection of short stories set in the Ozarks.
When I started to be a writer, I was not going to run the risk of boring you.
There's an overlap between social-realist fiction and crime fiction - a sweet spot there.
The opening novel of the 'Bayou Trilogy' was the first one I finished.
I've bumped into at least three people in town who all insist 'Winter's Bone' is about them.
This is how sudden things happened that haunted forever.
I didn't really expect to be coming to the Oscars.
I always loved the verve and vivacity of pulp and I kind of merged it with my own interest in family stories.
Ree, brunette and sixteen, with milk skin and abrupt green eyes, stood bare-armed in a fluttering yellowed dress, face to the wind, her cheeks reddening as if smacked and smacked again.
The heart's in it then, spinning dreams, and torment is on the way. The heart makes dreams seem like ideas.
It's not always to the benefit of the story to have it so preordained.
I had been born shoved to the margins of the world, sure, but I had volunteered for the pits.
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