Coloured people don’t like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don’t feel good about Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Burn it. Someone’s written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people...
Coloured people don't like . Burn it. White people don't feel good about . Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book.
Can’t you recognize the human in the inhuman?’ ‘I’d much rather recognize the inhuman in the human.
By the time I was forty my blunt instrument had been honed to a fine cutting point for me.
By living well, by observing as you live, by reading well and observing as you read, you have fed Your Most Original Self.
But why, why all the hurt? Because, said Mr. Halloway. You need fuel, gas, someting to run a carnival on, don't you? Women live off gossip, and what's gossip but a swap of headaches, sour spit, arthri...
But that was another Mildred so deep inside this one, and so bothered, really bothered, that the two women had never met.
But are we strong enough? wondered Blackwood. How strong is strong? They won’t be prepared for us, at least. They haven’t the imagination. Those clean young rocket men with their antiseptic bloomers a...
Borracho de vida, y sin conocer el rumbo siguiente. Pero antes del amanecer uno ya está en marcha. ¿Y el viaje? Exactamente la mitad terror, la mitad júbilo.
Belki bin yıl içinde atlamak için daha küçük uçurumlar seçeriz.
Any time now, Mr. Forrester will think it over and see it's just the only way and have a good cry and then look around and see it's morning again, even though it's five in the afternoon.
Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he'll eventually make some kind of career for himself as...
And with the trick, much admired by magicians, of sitting in a green velour chair and-vanishing! Turn your head and you forgot his face. Vanilla pudding.
And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I was crying because he would never do them again...
And what, you ask, does writing teach us? First and foremost, it reminds us that we are alive and that it is a gift and a privilege, not a right.
And the sun goes on, day after day, burning and burning. The sun and time. The sun and time and burning. Burning.
And suddenly she was so strange he couldn't believe he knew her at all.
And sometimes, I tell them, I like to put my head back, like this, and let the rain fall in my mouth. It tastes just like wine. Have you ever tried it?
And finally, have you trained well enough so you can say what you want to say without getting hamstrung? Have you written enough so that you are relaxed and can allow the truth to get out without bein...
And fiction gives us empathy: it puts us inside the minds of other people, gives us the gift of seeing the world through their eyes.