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It takes a year, nephew... a full turn of the calendar, to get over losing someone.

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
Years
Calendars
Losing
Turn
Takes
Full
Year
Turns
Nephew
Someone
Calendar

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I would rather be dead than not read
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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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Wonderful ... I was up all night reading it, laughing and crying out in horror.
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Archie was an expert at dividing the affairs of life into men's business and women's business. An empty cupboard and a full plate were the man's business, a full cupboard and an empty plate the concern of the woman.
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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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Anyway, there's something wrong with everybody and it's up to you to know what you can handle.
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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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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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I wish I knew how to quit you.
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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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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 think it's important to leave spaces in a story for readers to fill in from their own experience.
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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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What we fear we often rage against.
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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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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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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 can't fix it, you have to stand it.
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You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.
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