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One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.

Colum McCann

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Colum McCann
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: February 28
Academic
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Dublin city
Cast
Casts
Clouds
West
Small
Limps
Away
Herd
Herds
Cloud

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Cynicism is easy. An optimist is a braver cynic.
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That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.
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We stumble on, thinks Jaslyn, bring a little noise into the silence, find in others the ongoing of ourselves. It is almost enough.
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This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.
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They told me Corrigan smashed all the bones in his chest when he hit the steering wheel. I thought, Well at least in heaven his Spanish chick'll be able to reach in and grab his heart.
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Téa Obreht is the most thrilling literary discovery in years
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People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self.
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A book is completed only when it is finished by a reader.
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I don't really know what an adverb is. A dangling participle? That sounds really rude. I don't know what character is, really. Plot seems vaguely juvenile to me. It's all about language, it's all about how you apply it to the page.
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Words are good for saying what things are, but sometimes they don't function for what things aren't.
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I sit there thinking about how much courage it takes to live an ordinary life.
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She was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.
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Part of the beauty of fiction is that we come alive in a body that we don't own.
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Memory has a heavy backspin, yet it’s still impossible to land exactly where we took off.
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About 25 years ago, I took a bicycle across the United States. I soon found out that the greatest item of clothing was the trusty bandanna. There were dozens of uses for a bandanna - as a pot holder, a chain cleaner, a sun shield, a headband, a snot rag, a declaration of Kerouacian intent.
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Give life long enough and it will solve all your problems, including the one of being alive.
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I think it is our job, as writers, to be epic. Epic and tiny at the same time. If you're going to be a fiction writer, why not take on something that means something. In doing this, you must understand that within that epic structure it is the tiny story that is possibly more important.
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The job of the writer is to look at where he is now and make some sort of emotional sense of it, not only for that moment but for years to come.
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He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake.
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We seldom know what we're hearing when we hear something for the first time, but one thing is certain: we hear it as we will never hear it again. We return to the moment to experience it, I suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what really was, what it meant.
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