But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.
It's akin to style, what I'm talking about, but it isn't style alone. It is the writer's particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes. It is his world and no other. This is one of the things that distinguishes one writer from another. Not talent. There's plenty of that around. But a writer who has some special way of looking at things and who gives artistic expression to that way of looking: that writer may be around for a time.
Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
Ralph also took some classes in philosophy and literature and felt himself on the brink of some kind of huge discovery about himself. But it never came.
Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.
There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?
Booze takes a lot of time and effort if you're going to do a good job with it.
This is awful. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.
I think a little menace is fine to have in a story. For one thing, it's good for the circulation.
I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.
Isak Dinesen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope and without despair. I like that.
Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.
Fiction shows the external effects of internal conditions. Be aware of the tension between internal and external movement.
and did you get what you wanted from this life even so? i did.
What good are insights? They only make things worse.
Nights without beginning that had no end. Talking about a past as if it'd really happened. Telling themselves that this time next year, this time next year, things were going to be different.
I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been.
A man can go along obeying all the rules and then it don't matter a damn anymore.
The fiction Im most interested in has lines of reference to the real world.
A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.
Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.
I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. “None of this is worth it!” That’s what I’d like people to hear.
A great danger, or at least a great temptation, for many writers is to become too autobiographical in their approach to their fiction. A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
But he stays by the window, remembering that life. They had laughed. They had leaned on each other and laughed until the tears had come, while everything else—the cold and where he'd go in it—was outside, for a while anyway.
A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.
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