Quote

Here we go again. Always a few drinks, but sometimes even sober, we play the unhappiness game endlessly round and round. Ding dong. Tighter and tighter. On and on. Push me pull you. Come here and i'll tell you how much i hate you. Hang on a minute while i leave you. All the while we know we are missing the point, whatever the point used to be.

Anne Enright

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Anne Enright
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: October 11
Author
Essayist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Television Director
Television Producer
Writer
Dublin city
Always
Hate
Missing
Unhappiness
Tell
Drink
Hang
Dong
Used
Minutes
Pull
Ding
Come
Leave
Round
Play
Game
Push
Tighter
Sometimes
Games
Rounds
Drinks
Even
Whatever
Minute
Endlessly
Much
Point
Unhappy
Sober

More quotes by Anne Enright

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A drinker does not exist. Whatever they say, it is just the drink talking.
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I think it’s very important to write a demythologized woman character. My characters are flawed. They are no better than they should be.
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Cats, I always think, only jump into your lap to check if you are cold enough, yet, to eat.
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There is nothing as tentative as an old woman's touch as loving or as horrible.
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No woman that I know is capable of leaving her child down for thirty seconds. She can't walk away without making sure that everything is absolutely as secure and safe for her child as can be.
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One of the reasons I write is I like being surprised
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There are little thoughts in your head that can grow until they eat your entire mind. Just tiny little thoughts--they are like a cancer, there is no telling what triggers the spread, or who will be struck, and why some get it and others are spared.
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If your life just falls apart early on, you can put it together again. Its the people who are always on the brink of crisis who dont hit bottom who are in trouble.
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My kids are supposed to live till they are one hundred. You don't have to have a perfect house or a perfect relationship with your child or a perfect child, and you yourself do not have to be perfect.
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I am a trembling mess from hip to knee. There is a terrible heat, a looseness in my innards that makes me want to dig my fists between my thighs. It is a confusing feeling - somewhere between diarrhoea and sex - this grief that is almost genital.
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I write anywhere - when I have an idea it’s hard not to write. I used to be kind of precious about where I wrote. Everything had to be quiet and I couldn’t be disturbed, it really filled my day.
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Write whatever way you like. Fiction is made of words on a page reality is made of something else. It doesn't matter how real your story is, or how made up: what matters is its necessity.
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In more static societies, like Ireland, you can tell where a person is from by their surname, or where their grandparents are from.
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Naming is nice. It took me days before I was able to speak a name for my first child (what if people did not like it?), and I suspect we gave her a secret, second name as well, to keep her safe.
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I became a full-time writer in 1993 and have been very happy, insofar as anybody is, since.
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I never wanted to be mainstream as a writer, but look at what's happened.
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I am interested in silences
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Belief needs something terrible to make it work, I find--blood, nails, a bit of anguish.
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I’m really lucky with the people around me. They know me, so they don’t confuse the issues really. They know what a book is and they know who I am and they know the difference between the two.
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Resistless change, when powerless to improve, Can only mar.
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