Literature Fiction Quotes

Literature Fiction Quote of the day

Everyone lives by selling something.

But man is a fickle and disreputable creature and perhaps, like a chess-player, is interested in the process of attaining his goal rather than the goal itself.

There is only one genre in fiction, the genre is called book.

I tend to read more nonfiction, really, because when I'm writing I don't like to read other fiction.

The pleasures of writing correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading

I think the deepest thing is that many fiction writers tell stories but are not elegant writers. But, we're not writing journalism when we're making literature.

The long rays of sun stretched across the street and touched the twisted mabati tin roofs of the shops, creating a soft light that dulled the dust and rust, making them look almost beautiful.

A story has to break your heart or it's not worth telling.

That's sounds right. Another $5, 000 went to dress up the Little League park where he had played so many games. Seems like he paid off the MORTAGE on his parents' home, which wasn't that much.

This was a crime of passion, but unlike most crimes of passion, it had been meticulously and diabolically well-planned.

A fear of the unknown: what was that called?Worse yet: a fear of the known.

That’s what it means to be out of your mind. To let yourself be carried away by a dream. To give it room, let it grow wild and thick, until it overruns you.

And now the bride begins to move. Little mechanical doll, clinging to her husband’s arm, climbing into the carriage. Her white silk stocking, her elegant shoe.

I clap my hands together. (Where do I get the strength, the burst of energy?) To chase away the ghosts. Dispel my fears. Arrange the dream. Maintain a kind of balance

I steal a glance when no one is looking. Especially at his neck, when he turns to say something to my mother. That slender neck, with its air of determination, brisk and bold…

While he sweated out a story she bled put a poem. (Dark City Lights)

Darkness crept through. Shadows pried at doors, teased dull edges of recollections that never quite took hold. Memories that would have shriveled under the blinding sun of daylight. And reason.

Popular! In America, what else matters?

Literature is a virus.

A deus ex machina will never appear in real life so you best make other arrangements.

Literature is the real life of imaginary people.

Life is always on the way back home, after its wilful adventures.

...Sigerius realized that every academic looked like every other academic." - Bonita Avenue, p.49