Give me lust, baby. Flash. Give me malice. Flash. Give me detached existentialist ennui. Flash. Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism. Flash.
La persona que amas y la que te ama nunca es la misma persona.
How what looks cool later on always looks crazy at first.” “If numbers could explain the physical world, words would explain the invisible one.
I mean, a male chauvinist pig isn’t born, he’s made, and more and more of them are being made by women. After long enough, you just roll over and accept the fact that you’re a sexist, bigoted, insensitive, crude, cretinist cretin.
When she’s in love, nothing can make her sad; however, when she’s not in love, nothing can make her happy.
People will jump through hoops if you just make them feel like a god.
Experts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn’t see their thoughts as belonging to them. When they had a thought, it occurred to them as a god or goddess giving them an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to fall in love. Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy.
The handwriting of blood pressure.
He’d made nothing of his life, so the best he could imagine was to conceive another of himself. A do-over: Jimmy 2.0. As if to give himself a second shot, and doing so would shift the burden to this new him and give the current Jimmy permission to squander what was left of his years.
After you’ve sold this story, Mrs. Clark says, will you just look for a new villain? For the rest of your life, will you be looking for someone new to blame everything on?
Don’t pretend for a moment that writing as a different person is evading reality. If anything it allows you a greater freedom to explore parts of yourself you wouldn’t dare consciously examine.
Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what’s left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.
Never go longer than sixteen months without something new because after sixteen months people quit coming in that door and asking me if you have another book yet.
Think of a story as a stream of information. At best it’s an ever-changing series of rhythms. Now think of yourself, the writer, as a DJ mixing tracks. The more music you have to sample from – the more records you have to spin – the more likely you’ll keep your audience dancing.
What I need to learn to do for myself. To write my own story.
So direct and misdirect your reader, but don’t tell her the meaning of anything. Not until she gets it wrong in her head.
It amounted to a pornography of being right. No orgasm would be as satisfying as proving everyone else wrong.
She wanted a choice beyond: Housewife versus lawyer.
My ass is stuck. Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you’re going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida. People just don’t talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.
Right now, up those stairs, the lady behind the door, she’s neutral territory. A shrine where you pilgrimage a thousand miles on your knees to pay tribute. Same as Jerusalem or some church. Special to white supremacists and Bloods, Crips, Ninjas, a lady who transcends turf wars for power. Who transcends race and nationality and family. Every man might hate every other man, outside of here we might all kill each other, but we all love her.
So never dictate meaning to your reader. If need be, misdirect him. But always allow him to realize the truth before you state it outright. Trust your readers’ intelligence and intuition, and they will return the favor.