Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
He traveled in order to come home.
Only love matters in the bits and pieces of a person's life.
People run away to be alone,' he said. Some people had to be alone.
I get melancholy if I don't [write]. I need the company of people who don't exist.
I read hungrily and delightedly, and have realized since that you can’t write unless you read.
People like me write because otherwise we are pretty inarticulate. Our articulation is our writing.
The capacity you're thinking of is imagination; without it there can be no understanding, indeed no fiction.
I believe in not quite knowing. A writer needs to be doubtful, questioning. I write out of curiosity and bewilderment.
Memories can be everything if we choose to make them so. But you are right: you mustn't do that. That is for me, and I shall do it.
My fiction may, now and again, illuminate aspects of the human condition, but I do not consciously set out to do so: I am a storyteller.
I value mothers and motherhood enormously. For every inattentive or abusive mother in my fiction I think you'll find a dozen or so who are neither.
There is an element of autobiography in all fiction in that pain or distress, or pleasure, is based on the author's own. But in my case that is as far as it goes.
The same applies to any artist; we are the tools and instruments of our talent. We are outsiders; we have no place in society because society is what we’re watching, and dealing with.
By the end, you should be inside your character, actually operating from within somebody else, and knowing him pretty well, as that person knows himself or herself. You're sort of a predator, an invader of people.
As a writer one doesn’t belong anywhere. Fiction writers, I think, are even more outside the pale, necessarily on the edge of society. Because society and people are our meat, one really doesn’t belong in the midst of society. The great challenge in writing is always to find the universal in the local, the parochial. And to do that, one needs distance.
As the surface of the seashore rocks were pitted by by the waves and gathered limpets that further disguised what lay beneath, so time made truth of what appeared to be. The days that passed, in becoming weeks, still did not disturb the surface an assumption had created. The weather of a beautiful summer continued with neither sign nor hint that credence had been misplaced. The single sandal found among the rocks became a sodden image of death; and as the keening on the pier at Kilauran traditionally marked distres brought by the sea, so did silence at Lahardane.