She thought she brought a gift of compassion for those exhausted souls who had not received a chest portion from the people who raised them. If compassion and therapy did not work, she could always send her patients to the local pharmacy for drugs.
I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
I think I learned about the relationship between books and life from Margaret Mitchell.
There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
I’ve never cackled with laughter at a single line I’ve ever written. None of it has given me pleasure.
Families without songs are unhappy families.
Isn’t it a shame military doctors couldn’t be as good as military sunglasses?
I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.
Craziness attacks the softest eyes and hamstrings the gentlest flanks.
One does not know where love will take you.
I meet kids now who become novelists, poets, write for the theater and movies, who were simply inspired by what they saw during the Spoleto Festival.
Fantasy is one of the soul’s brighter porcelains.
When men talk about the agony of being men, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of self-pity. And when women talk about being women, they can never quite get away from the recurrent theme of blaming men.
He was one of those rare men who are capable of being fully in love only once in their lives.
Few things linger longer or become more indwelling than that feeling of both completion and emptiness when a great book ends. That the book accompanies the reader forever from that day forward is part of literature’s profligate generosity.
I can’t pass a bookstore without slipping inside, looking for the next book that will burn my hand when I touch its jacket, or hand me over a promissory note of such immense power that it contains the formula that will change everything about me.
What’s important is that a story changes every time you say it out loud. When you put it on paper, it can never change. But the more times you tell it, the more changes will occur. A story is a living thing; it moves and shifts.
Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.
Know this. I think you could be special if you only thought there was anything special about yourself.
The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.