I want the reader to feel something is astonishing. Not the 'what happens,' but the way everything happens. These long short story fictions do that best, for me.
Pots can show malice, the patterns of linoleum can leer up at you, treachery is the other side of dailiness.
Life would be grand if it weren't for the people.
Every year, when you're a child, you become a different person.
She was learning, quite late, what many people around her appeared to have known since childhood that life can be perfectly satisfying without major achievements.
There is a limit to the amount of misery and disarray you will put up with, for love, just as there is a limit to the amount of mess you can stand around a house. You can't know the limit beforehand, but you will know when you've reached it. I believe this.
One stroke of lightning does not have to lead anywhere, but to the next stroke of lightning.
Anecdotes don't make good stories. Generally I dig down underneath them so far that the story that finally comes out is not what people thought their anecdotes were about.
We say of some things that they can't be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do-we do it all the time.
The conversation of kisses. Subtle, engrossing, fearless, transforming.
The story fails but your faith in the importance of doing the story doesn't fail.
I can't play bridge. I don't play tennis. All those things that people learn, and I admire, there hasn't seemed time for. But what there is time for is looking out the window.
I loved taking off. In my own house, I seemed to be often looking for a place to hide - sometimes from the children but more often from the jobs to be done and the phone ringing and the sociability of the neighborhood. I wanted to hide so that I could get busy at my real work, which was a sort of wooing of distant parts of myself.
The complexity of things - the things within things - just seems to be endless. I mean nothing is easy, nothing is simple.
Moments of kindness and reconciliation are worth having, even if the parting has to come sooner or later.
Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
She could not explain or quite understand that it wasn't altogether jealousy she felt, it was rage. And not because she couldn't shop like that or dress like that. It was because that was what girls were supposed to be like. That was what men - people, everybody - thought they should be like. Beautiful, treasured, spoiled, selfish, pea-brained. That was what a girl should be, to be fallen in love with. Then she would become a mother and she'd be all mushily devoted to her babies. Not selfish anymore, but just as pea-brained. Forever.
The images, the language, of pornography, and romance are alike; monotonous and mechanically seductive, quickly leading to despair.
I want my stories to move people ... to feel some kind of reward from the writing.
Who can ever say the perfect thing to the poet about his poetry?
In dreams you can have the feeling that you've had this dream before, that you have this dream over and over again, and you know that it's really nothing that simple. You know that there's a whole underground system that you call 'dreams,' having nothing better to call them, and that this system is not like roads or tunnels but more like a live body network, all coiling and stretching, unpredictable but finally familiar - where you are now, where you've always been.
And now such a warm commotion, such busy love.
People have thoughts they’d sooner not have. It happens in life.
Because if she let go of her grief even for a minute it would only hit her harder when she bumped into it again.
What she wants to do if she can get the time to do it, is not so much to live in the past as to open it up and get one good look at it".
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