A life lived in chaos is an impossibility.
Just write a little bit every day. Even if it's for only half an hour — write, write, write.
It strikes me as somewhat odd that the people who use God's name most frequently, both in life and in literature, usually don't believe in him.
You have to write the book that wants to be written.
We do live, all of us, on many different levels, and for most artists the world of imagination is more real than the world of the kitchen sink.
The discipline of creation, be it to paint, compose, write, is an effort towards wholeness.
The primary needs can be filled without language. We can eat, sleep, make love, build a house, bear children, without language. But we cannot ask questions. We cannot ask, 'Who am I? Who are you? Why?
In the final exam in the Chaucer course we were asked why he used certain verbal devices, certain adjectives, why he had certain characters behave in certain ways. And I wrote, 'I don't think Chaucer had any idea why he did any of these things. That isn't the way people write.' I believe this as strongly now as I did then. Most of what is best in writing isn't done deliberately.
The novelist helps us to see things we might not notice otherwise.
anything that stretches the mind is a help to the potential author.
It is possible to suffer and despair an entire lifetime and still not give up the art of laughter.
Come t'e' picciol fallo amaro morso! Dante. What grievous pain a little fault doth give thee!
Only a fool is not afraid.
Vitam impendere vero. To stake one's life for the truth.
Das Werk lobt den Meister. (German: The work proves the craftsman.)
As paredes tem ouvidos. (Portuguese: The walls have ears.)
For that moment, at least, all our doors and windows were wide open; we were not carefully shutting out God's purifying light, in order to feel safe and secure; we were bathed in the same light that burned and yet did not consume the bush. We walked barefoot on holy ground.
In your language you have a form of poetry called the sonnet…There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That’s a very strict rhythm or meter…And each line has to end with a rigid pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet…But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants…You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.
Have you ever tried to get to your feet with a sprained dignity?
With our human limitations we're not always able to understand the explanations.
This wasn't the first time that I'd come close to death, but it was the first time I'd been involved in this part of it, this strange, terrible saying goodbye to someone you've loved.
Their love was a bright flower, youthful and radiantly beautiful.
Language changes. If it does not change, like Latin it dies. But we need to be aware that as our language changes, so does our theology change, particularly if we are trying to manipulate language for a specific purpose. That is what is happening with our attempts at inclusive language, which thus far have been inconclusive and unsuccessful.
But where, after we have made the great decision to leave the security of childhood and move on into the vastness of maturity, does anybody ever feel completely at home?
I don't know if they're really like everybody else, or if they're able to pretend they are.
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