Everything about her seems to be saying; Listen, if you don't look attentively, if you don't go beyond my simplicity to detect the simmering volcano in me, you are not it.
Submitted by ccburton almost 5 years ago
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Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
Submitted by laura over 6 years ago
There was silence in the hall, now, the kind of silence that presses against the eardrums, that seems too huge to be contained by walls.
Submitted by ccc about 7 years ago
We have to build the Republic of Heaven where we are, because for us there is no elsewhere.
Submitted by thorisalaptop about 7 years ago
Freedom (n.): To ask nothing. To expect nothing. To depend on nothing.
— Ayn Rand
Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were heading for shore.
A novel is like a cathederal and you really can’t carry in your imagination the form a cathedral is to take. I like the inkling, the shadow, of a new short story. I like the whole business of establishing its point, for although a story need not have a plot it must have a point. I’m a short-story writer, really, who happens to write novels. Not the other way around.
One of the big differences between the two is that the novel is a very different subject for me to see round, to the end of it. But you can see round a short story long before it’s finished, and feel what it’s going to be like.
Work seethes in the hands of spring,
That strapping dairymaid.
I'm like a person whose hands were kept numb, without sensation from the first moment of awareness - until one day the ability to feel is forced into them. And I say: "Look! I have no hands!" But the people all around me say: "What are hands?"
Paradise on my right, Hell on my left and the Angel of Death behind.
Black is a blind remembering. You list for pack sounds, for the cries of those who hunted your ancestors in a past so ancient only your most primitive cells remember. The ears see. The nostrils see.
There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.
Submitted by SunshineSoleil about 7 years ago
I look placid, you see, that's why people think I'm fine. Inside I worry a lot.