Quotes from Anne Tyler

You wake in the morning, you're feeling fine, but all at once you think, "Something's not right. Something's off somewhere; what is it?" And then you remember

eventually you did. Happy endings all around.

He drew the brush along the wood with dreamy strokes. Wasn't it interesting how the grain of the wood told a story, almost—how you could follow the threads and be surprised at how far they traveled, or where they unexpectedly broke off.

Red grabbed the receiver at the very same instant that Abby flung herself across him to grab it herself. He had it first, but there was a little tussle and somehow she was the one who ended up with it.

They certainly didn't resemble the people you pictured when you saw those don't kill mee-maw signs urging masks and social distancing

Last Christmas Daphne hadn't been born yet; nor had Fanny. Now here sat Daphne chewing a wad of blue tissue while Franny stirred her fists through Agatha's jigsaw puzzle. They both seemed so accustomed to being here. And Danny and Lucy had completely vanished . Something was wrong with a world where people came and went so easily.

Didn't anyone stop to reflect that the so-called old people of today used to smoke pot, for heaven's sake, and wear bandannas tied around their heads and picket the White House?

You leave the Pennsylvania Station 'bout a quarter to four, Read a magazine and then you're in Baltimore …

Oh, weren't human beings self-deluding!

But Willa said, "Talk what through? I'm marrying him and that's that.

The cat made a comma of sweat across his bare thighs.

He saw millions of houses, viewed from an airplane, and every couchc in every tiny house was occupied by someone from yet another house. Everyone was shuffled around helter-skelter-Ben Joe on Shelley's couch, Gary on Ben Joe's couch, and God knew who was on Gary's couch.

For the first time it occurred to him that there was something steely and inhuman to this religion business.

He ate an apple and a little box of raisins from his bag, drank the milk, and went off to the lavatory to floss and brush his teeth.

Sometimes, after an especially trying day, she felt an urge to burn everything she had worn.

When I read, I'm purely a reader.

I'll write maybe one long paragraph describing the events, then a page or two breaking the events into chapters, and then reams of pages delving into my characters. After that, I'm ready to begin.

I consciously try to end my novels at a point where I won't have to wonder about my characters ever again.

Time, in general, has always been a central obsession of mine - what it does to people, how it can constitute a plot all on its own. So naturally, I am interested in old age.

It is very difficult to live among people you love and hold back from offering them advice.

The hardest novel to write was Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant.

While armchair travelers dream of going places, traveling armchairs dream of staying put.

But what I hope for from a book - either one that I write or one that I read - is transparency. I want the story to shine through. I don't want to think of the writer.

I've always thought a hotel ought to offer optional small animals. I mean a cat to sleep on your bed at night, or a dog of some kind to act pleased when you come in. You ever notice how a hotel room feels so lifeless?