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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.

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
Heart
Anymore
Never
Broken
Life
Coming
Went
Small
Everybody
Suffered
Away
Wrote
Back
Fit

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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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I think it's important to leave spaces in a story for readers to fill in from their own experience.
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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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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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And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.
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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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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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In a rough way the short story writer is to the novelist as a cabinetmaker is to a house carpenter.
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Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.
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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 can't fix it, you have to stand it.
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We're all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differences as we grow up.
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Wonderful ... I was up all night reading it, laughing and crying out in horror.
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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.
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You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.
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You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.
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It takes a year, nephew... a full turn of the calendar, to get over losing someone.
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What we fear we often rage against.
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