He wondered if she wondered if he were watching her.
All of us, all of us, all of us trying to save our immortal souls, some ways seemingly more round about and mysterious than others. We are having a good time here. But hope all will be revealed soon.
That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
It was [John Gardner's] conviction that if the words in the story were blurred because of the author's insensitivity, carelessness, or sentimentality, then the story suffered from a tremendous handica...
Woke up this morning witha terrific urge to lie in bed all dayand read. Fought against it for a minute.Then looked out the window at the rain.And gave over. Put myself entirelyin the keep of this rain...
There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.
There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.For being still. Coupled with thisa desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,not always trustworthy. And I for...
The light was draining out of the room, going back through the window where it had come from.
Sai bene che non sogno.Ma ieri notte ho sognato che assistevamo a un funerale nel mare. All’inizio ero attonito. Poi pieno di rimpianti. Ma tu
I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. None of this is worth it! That’s what I’d like people to hear.
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.Fear of falling asleep at night.Fear of not falling asleep.Fear of the past rising up.Fear of the present taking flight.Fear of the telephone that rings...
Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.
So early it's still almost dark out.I'm near the window with coffee,and the usual early morning stuffthat passes for thought.When I see the boy and his friendwalking up the roadto deliver the newspape...
And did you get whatyou wanted from this life, even so?I did.And what did you want?To call myself beloved, to feel myselfbeloved on the earth.
There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.
But he stays by the window, remembering that life. They had laughed. They had leaned on each other and laughed until the tears had come, while everything else—the cold and where he'd go in it—was outs...
But I guess even the knights were vessels to someone. Isn't that the way it worked? But then everyone is always a vessel to someone.
And it ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love.
You have to have been in love to write poetry.
Something’s died in me, she goes. It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.