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Children were strangers you loved because you could love. If they gave back love when they were grown you were ahead of the game.
Bernard Malamud
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Bernard Malamud
Age: 71 †
Born: 1914
Born: April 26
Died: 1986
Died: March 18
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Brooklyn
New York
Gave
Loved
Game
Games
Back
Strangers
Children
Grown
Love
Stranger
Ahead
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If the stories come, you get them written, you're on the right track. Eventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crack is you.
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What suffering has taught me is the uselessness of suffering.
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When I don't feel hurt, I hope they bury me.
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The past exudes legend: one can't make pure clay of time's mud.
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Completed, most lives were alike in stages of living-joys, celebrations, crises, illusions, losses, sorrows.
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We can't all be friends and relatives as the world is most of us have to be strangers.
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A man has to construct, invent, his freedom.
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I don't think you can do anything for anyone without giving up something of your own.
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I sometimes confuse myself with the little I know.
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You write by sitting down and writing. There's no particular time or place—you suit yourself, your nature. How one works, assuming he's disciplined, doesn't matter.
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The past exudes legend: one can't make pure clay of time's mud. There is no life that can be recaptured wholly as it was.Which is to say that all biography is ultimately fiction.
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A man is an island in the only sense that matters, not an easy way to be. We live in mystery, a cosmos of separate lonely bodies, men, insects, stars. It is all loneliness and men know it best.
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You see in others who you are.
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The short story packs a self in a few pages predicating a lifetime
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Writing is a mode of being. If I write I live.
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