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Oh, that river of wishes, the slippery crocodile dream of it, how it might have carried my body down through all the glittering sand bars to the sea.

Barbara Kingsolver

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Barbara Kingsolver
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: April 8
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Annapolis
Maryland
Dream
Wishes
Body
Carried
Might
Sand
River
Bars
Crocodile
Rivers
Crocodiles
Sea
Glittering
Wish
Slippery

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If you're standing in the manure pile, it's somebody's job to mention the stink.
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The happiest people are the ones with the most community.
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The wrong words are impossible when there are no words.
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Every betrayal contains a perfect moment, a coin stamped heads or tails with salvation on the other side.
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Last time I talked to her she didn't sound like herself. She's depressed. It's awful what happens when people run out of money. They start thinking they're no good.
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I personally am inclined to approach [housework] the way governments treat dissent: ignore it until it revolts.
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A breeze shook rain out of new leaves onto their hair, but in their pursuit of eternity they never noticed the chill.
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You could love your crazy people, even admire them, instead of resenting that they're not self-sufficient.
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The changes we dread most may contain our salvation.
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Come to think of it, just about every tool was shaped like either a weenie or a pistol, depending on your point of view.
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You see mother, you had no life of your own. They have no idea. One has only a life of one's own.
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It is completely usual for me to get up in the morning, take a look around, and laugh out loud.
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Few people know so clearly what they want. Most people can't even think what to hope for when they throw a penny in a fountain.
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This is how Americans think. You believe that if something terrible happens to someone, they must have deserved it.
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In Kilanga, people knew nothing of things they might have had - a Frigidaire? a washer-dryer combination? Really, they'd sooner imagine a tree that could pull up its feet and go bake bread. It didn't occur to them to feel sorry for themselves.
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No matter what kind of night you're having, morning always wins.
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In fact, one of the things that I really love about literary fiction is that it's one of the few kinds of writing that doesn't tell us what to think or what to buy or what to wear. We're surrounded by advertising.
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Ah, the mysterious croak. Here today, gone tomorrow. It's the best reason I can think of to throw open the blinds and risk belief. Right now, this minute, time to move out into the grief and glory. High tide.
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I concentrate on character, theme, language, structure, voice. It actually surprises me that no matter what I write, people declare it intently political. I'm just writing about the world I know, as it is. Wounds and griefs included.
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It's very important to distinguish between innocence and naivete. The innocent do not deserve to be the victims of violence. But only the naive refuse to think about the origins of violence and to pursue the possibility that the genesis of that hatred could be addressed.
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