Quotes About Author

her neat sweet features fixed in a small smile of polite wariness.

that crutch hadn't done her rear end any harm. If you saw it by itself, you might have thought it belonged to a Shetland pony. But

he doesn't agree with the conventional wisdom that says, "The world changed on September 11." Hauerwas says, "No, the world changed in 33 A.D. The question is how to narrate what happened on September 11 in light of what happened in 33 A.D.

I've been a Mets fan all my life." Nearly everybody was saying it by mid-June. And nearly everybody had a good reason for saying it. You see, the Mets are losers, just like nearly everybody else in life.

Sometimes I wish I had a terrible childhood, so that at least I'd have an excuse.

My case rests on the rights of desire,' he says. 'On the god who makes even the small birds quiver.

My case rests on the rights of desire,' he says. 'On the god who makes even the small birds quiver.' (11)

os pubs são um estado de espírito para o bife, uma religião alcoólica-apostólica

In 1723, the commissioners allowed Bienville to make New Orleans the capital of Louisiana.

Can you evade the dying of the brightness? Or do you evade only its warning? Where are you left if you miss the message the blue nights bring?

When I am near the end of a book, I have to sleep in the same room with it.

Our favorite people and our favorite stories become so not by any inherent virtue, but because they illustrate something deep in the grain, something unadmitted.

You're a professional. Finish the piece. It occurs to me that we allow ourselves to imagine only such messages as we need to survive.

Madness, it became convenient to believe quite early on, came with the territory, on the order of earthquakes.

Her choices, all. Sentimental choices, things she remembered. I remembered them too.

As a writer, even as a child, long before what I wrote began to be published, I developed a sense that meaning itself was resident in the rhythms of words and sentences and paragraphs.

When I try to reconstruct those weeks at UCLA I recognize the mudginess in my own memory. There are parts of days that seem very clear and parts of days that do not.

This "I" was the voice of no author in my house. This "I" was someone who not only knew why Charlotte went to the airport but also knew someone called "Victor." Who was Victor? Who was this narrator? Why was this narrator telling me this story? Let me tell you one thing about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel.

see the question now as the equivalent of a cry of helpless rage, another way of saying How could this have happened when everything was normal.

Maria, for Christ's fucking sake, they've been screening it every night for a month, you know that—oh shit." "I didn't mean to be that way," she said after a while. "You never mean to be any way.

anise tea. "Meditation turns us on," Sandy says. He has a shaved head and the kind of cherubic face usually seen in newspaper photographs of mass murderers.

I remember all of the day's misinformation very clearly, and I also remember this, and wish I did not: I remember that no one was surprised.

That is not a remarkable thing to say, but it is a remarkable thing to have in one's memory.

Everybody says I'm politically naive, and I am," she says after a while. It is something she says frequently to people she does not know. "So are the people running politics, or we wouldn't be in wars, would we.