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Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.

Annie Proulx

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Annie Proulx
Age: 89
Born: 1935
Born: August 22
Author
Journalist
Librettist
Non-Fiction Writer
Novelist
Screenwriter
Norwich
Connecticut
E. Annie Proulx
E.A. Proulx
Edna Annie Proulx
Edna Ann Proulx
Came
Something
Love
Wrenched
Unfolding
Wounded
Comfortable
Silence

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... there are four women in every man’s heart. The Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stouthearted Woman, the Tall and Quiet Woman.
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In a rough way the short story writer is to the novelist as a cabinetmaker is to a house carpenter.
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What we fear we often rage against.
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Wonderful ... I was up all night reading it, laughing and crying out in horror.
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We're all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differences as we grow up.
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I think it's important to leave spaces in a story for readers to fill in from their own experience.
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And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.
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He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands.
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If you get the landscape right, the characters will step out of it, and they'll be in the right place.
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If life was an arc of light that began in darkness, ended in darkness, the first part of his life had happened in ordinary glare. Here it was as though he had found a polarized lens that deepened and intensified all seen through it.
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I wish I knew how to quit you.
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If you can't fix it, you have to stand it.
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Anyway, there's something wrong with everybody and it's up to you to know what you can handle.
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If you are looking for smart judging based on merit, skip the Academy Awards next year and pay attention to the Independent Spirit Awards.
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It takes a year, nephew... a full turn of the calendar, to get over losing someone.
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Everybody that went away suffered a broken heart. I'm coming back some day, they all wrote. But never did. The old life was too small to fit anymore.
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I would rather be dead than not read
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But the only rhyme he could summon for 'out' was 'sauerkraut,' which lacked poetic glory. He let it go. The right line would come in time. That was the thing about poetry. It crept up through the draws and coulees of the brain.
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It is my feeling that a story is not finished until it is read, and that the reader finishes it through his or her life experience, prejudices, worldview and thoughts.
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Walking on the land or digging in the fine soil I am intensely aware that time quivers slightly, changes occurring in imperceptible and minute ways, accumulating so subtly that they seem not to exist. Yet the tiny shifts in everything--cell replication, the rain of dust motes, lengthening hair, wind-pushed rocks--press inexorably on and on.
Annie Proulx