Writers remember everything...especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar. Art consists of the persistence of memory.
There was a lot they didn't tell you about death, she had discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart.
He supposed that even in Hell, people got an occasional sip of water, if only so they could appreciate the full horror of unrequited thirst when it set in again.
Life is fair. We all get the same nine-month shake in the box, and then the dice roll. Some people get a run of sevens. Some people, unfortunately, get snake-eyes. Its just how the world is.
In the end, the wind takes everything, doesn't it? And why not? Why other? If the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.
At the end of her life she was aware of heat but not pain. She had time to consider his eyes, eyes of that blue which is the color of the sky at first light of the morning. She had time to think of him on the Drop, riding Rusher flat out with his black hair flying back from his temples and his neckerchief rippling; to see him laughing with an ease and freedom he would never find again in the long life which stretched out for him beyond hers, and it was his laughter she took with her as she went out, fleeing the light and heat in to the silkly, consoling dark, calling to him over and over as she went, calling bird and bear and hare and fish.
Sometimes when you're young, you have moments of such happiness, you think you're living on someplace magical, like Atlantis must have been. Then we grow up and our hearts break into two.
Time flies, knells call, life passes, so hear my prayer. Birth is nothing but death begun, so hear my prayer. Death is speechless, so hear my speech. This is Jake, who served his ka and his tet. Say true. May the forgiving glance of S'mana heal his heart. Say please. May the arms of Gan raise him from the darkness of this earth. Say please. Surround him, Gan , with light. Fill him, Chloe, with strength. If he is thirsty, give him water in the clearing. If he is hungry, give him food in the clearing. May his life on this earth and the pain of his passing become as a dream to his waking soul, and let his eyes fall upon every lovely sight; let him find the friends that were lost to him, and let every one whose name he calls call his in return. This is Jake, who lived well, loved his own, and died as ka would have it. Each man owes a death. This is Jake. Give him peace.
"I changed it. I had to. Do you know why?" She studied him, her eyes grave. "Because that was then and this is now. Because the past is gone, even though it defines the present."
I believe the first draft of a book -- even a long one -- should take no more than three months...Any longer and -- for me, at least -- the story begins to take on an odd foreign feel, like a dispatch from the Romanian Department of Public Affairs, or something broadcast on high-band shortwave duiring a period of severe sunspot activity.
But it's writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can't or won't, it's time for you to close the book and do something else. Wash the car, maybe.
"You have to read widely, constantly refining (and redefining) your own work as you do so. It's hard for me to believe that people who read very little (or not at all in some cases) should presume to write and expect people to like what they have written, but I know it's true. If I had a nickel for every person who ever told me he/she wanted to become a writer but "didn't have time to read," I could buy myself a pretty good steak dinner. Can I be blunt on this subject? If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that. Reading is the creative center of a writer's life. I take a book with me everywhere I go, and find there are all sorts of opportunities to dip in ... Reading at meals is considered rude in polite society, but if you expect to succeed as a writer, rudeness should be the second-to-least of your concerns. The least of all should be polite society and what it expects. If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered anyway."
So sind die Dinge manchmal. Wenn alles am schlimmsten ist, dann wirft der Verstand alles in einen Papierkorb und geht fur eine Weile nach Florida. Da ist ein Was-zur-Holle-soll's?-Gefuhl in einem, wahrend man da-steht und uber die Schulter zu der Brucke zuruckblickt, die man soeben niedergebrannt hat.
Wenn die Intelligenten einen schlechten Charakter haben, so zeigt sich das, und wenn sie keinen schlechten Charakter haben, dann sind sie so leicht auszurechnen wie Quadratwurzeln.
Sie wurden ihm helfen, ihn heilen. Arzneien und Arzte. Eine Anderung der Einstellung. Dann Frieden. Seine Streitsuchtigkeit wurde wie Unkraut aus ihm herausgejatet werden.
Sus rostros eran absolutamente similares en un detalle: parecian extremadamente incompletos, como cuadros con agujeros por ojos o como un rompecabezas al que le faltase una pieza nimia. Y eso que echaba en falta, penso Richards, era el aire de desesperacion. En sus estomagos no aullaban los lobos. Sus mentes no estaban llenas de suenos viciados, de esperanzas insensatas.
Sie pflegten mir Angst zu machen, und sie machen mir immer noch Angst, aber jetzt langweilen Sie mich auch noch, und ich habe mich entschlossen, das nicht mehr hinzunehmen
Ich sehe das so: Ein Kerl, der stirbt, bevor Gott es fur ihn vorgesehen hatte, erlebt so etwas wie ein Baseballspiel, das wegen Regen abgebrochen wird. Die Sunden, die er begangen hat, zahlen nicht. Gott muss ihn einfach reinlassen, denn der Kerl hatte ja gar nicht mehr die Zeit zu bereuen, so wie Er es fur ihn geplant hatte. Wenn ich also einen umbringe, erspare ich ihm dadurch die Qualen der Holle. Auf diese Art tue ich sogar mehr fur ihn, als der Papst selbst es je tun konnte.