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What we fear we often rage against.

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
Rage
Fear
Often

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Wonderful ... I was up all night reading it, laughing and crying out in horror.
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A spinning coin, still balanced on its rim, may fall in either direction.
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Change itself is what fascinates me. I am drawn, as a moth to the flame, by edge situations, by situations of metamorphosis.
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Develop craftsmanship through years of wide reading.
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I would rather be dead than not read
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All the travelin I ever done is going around the coffeepot looking for the handle.
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We're all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differences as we grow up.
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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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It takes a year, nephew... a full turn of the calendar, to get over losing someone.
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I wish I knew how to quit you.
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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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It's easier to die if others around you are dying.
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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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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 am influenced by words and the chewiness of language
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No wonder, he thought, that the panhandle people were a godly lot, for they lived in sudden, violent atmospheres. Weather kept them humble.
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Ordinary parties, he thought, were subtle games of sexual and social badminton.
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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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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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And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.
Annie Proulx