The writer doesn’t write for the reader. He doesn’t write for himself, either. He writes to serve…something. Somethingness. The somethingness that is sheltered by the wings of nothingness – those exquisite, enveloping, protecting wings.
Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this.
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Vita Sackvillewest
When male authors write love stories, the heroine tends to end up dead.
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Susan Elizabeth Phillips
I remember when your name was just another name that rolled without thought off my tongue. Now, I can’t look at your name without an abundance of sentiment attached to each lettter. Your name, which I played with so carelessly, so easily, has somehow become...
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Coco J. Ginger
When Great Trees FallWhen great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker downin tall grasses, and even elephantslumber after safety. When great trees fallin forests, small things recoil into silence, their senseseroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomeslight,...
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Maya Angelou
I do not love men: I love what devours them.
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Unknown
More Quotes By Joy Williams
Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there.
When I look at my old pictures, all I can see is what I used to be but am no longer. I think: What I can see is what I am not.
Your nightmares follow you like a shadow, forever.
All the lives I could live, all the people I will never know, never will be, they are everywhere. That is all that the world is.
There's a psychological mechanism, I've come to believe, that prevents most of us from imagining the moment of our own death. For if it were possible to imagine fully that instant of passing from consciousness to nonexistence, with all the attendant fear and humiliation of...
