“To imagine yourself inside another person.is what a story writer does in every piece of work it is his first step, and his last too, I suppose.” It is only the vision that can be new but that is enough.” Whatever our place, it has been visited by the stranger, it will never be new again. Whatever our theme in writing, it is old and tried. “The challenge to writers today, I think, is not to disown any part of our heritage. The story, in the way it has arrived at what it is on the page, has been something learned, by dint of the story's challenge and the work that rises to meet it-a process as uncharted for the writer as if it had never been attempted before.” “It's the form it takes when it comes out the other side, of course, that gives a story something unique-its life. “The novelist works neither to correct nor to condone, not at all to comfort, but to make what's told alive.” “The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order the continuous thread of revelation.” All writers great and small must sometimes have felt that they have become part of what they wrote even more than it still remains a part of them.” Yet in reading great works one feels that the finished piece transcends the personal. “Writing is an expression of the writer's own peculiar personality, could not help being so. A good novel of any year can initiate us into our own new experience.”
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Eventually, it may show us how to face our feelings and face our actions and to have new inklings about what they mean. “Great fiction shows us not how to conduct our behavior but how to feel. The novel is something that never was before and will not be again.” The essence will not be, of course, the same thing as the raw material it is not even of the same family of things. “The writing of a novel is taking life as it already exists, not to report it but to make an object, toward the end that the finished work might contain this life inside it and offer it to the reader. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.” Listening children know stories are there. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. “Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. It was a lark then and I always associate divinity fudge with snowstorms.” “When I was a child and the snow fell, my mother always rushed to the kitchen and made snow ice cream and divinity fudge-egg whites, sugar and pecans, mostly. They are born reciters, great memory retainers, diary keepers, letter exchangers.
For all I know, writing comes out of a superior devotion to reading.” “Indeed, learning to write may be part of learning to read. The only fear was that of books coming to an end.”
“It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming of themselves like grass.” “My continuing passion is to part a curtain, that invisible veil of indifference that falls between us and that blinds us to each other's presence, each other's wonder, each other's human plight.” Characters in fiction are conceived from within, and they have, accordingly, their own interior life they are individuals every time.” In fiction, while we do not necessarily write about ourselves, we write out of ourselves, using ourselves what we learn from, what we are sensitive to, what we feel strongly about-these become our characters and go to make our plots. “The first act of insight is throw away the labels. And all writers speak from, and speak to, emotions eternally the same in all of us: love, pity, terror do not show favorites or leave any of us out.”
“For the source of the short story is usually lyrical. Still illiterate, I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them - with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. “It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. “I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them-with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself.” “The excursion is the same when you go looking for your sorrow as when you go looking for your joy.”
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