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Bohemia and all its works are vanished out of America or, more exactly, bohemia has migrated to the middle class, and is alive and well in condo and suburb.

Cynthia Ozick

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Cynthia Ozick
Age: 96
Born: 1928
Born: April 17
Novelist
Writer
New York City
New York
Well
Suburbs
Exactly
Works
Middle
Condo
Alive
Migrated
Class
Bohemia
America
Suburb
Wells
Vanished

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Every writer aspires to recognition , and it comes entirely privately, without public fanfare, each time a piece of work is judged worthy of publication.
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What was lost in the European cataclysm was not only the Jewish past--the whole life of a civilization--but also a major share ofthe Jewish future.... [ellipsis in source] It was not only the intellect of a people in its prime that was excised, but the treasure of a people in its potential.
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The imagination has resources and intimations we don't even know about.
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Dedication to one's work in the world is the only possible sanctifica-tion. Religion in all its forms is dedication to Someone Else's work, not yours.
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Two things remain irretrievable: time and a first impression.
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In real life wishing, divorced from willing, is sterile and begets nothing.
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Fiction does not invent out of a vacuum, but it invents and what it invents is, first, the fabric and cadence of language, and then a slant of idea that sails out of these as a fin lifts from the sea.
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Time heals all things but one: Time.
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very bright teeth as big and orderly as piano keys.
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Is there a word more passionate than passion? Obsession, total immersion, the feeling that everything else doesn't matter.
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History ... isn't simply what has happened. It's a judgment on what has happened.
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There's a paradox in rereading. You read the first time for rediscovery: an encounter with the confirming emotions. But you reread for discovery: you go to the known to figure out the workings of the unknown, the why of the familiar how.
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Real apprenticeship is ultimately always to the self.
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Death persecutes before it executes.
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He who cries, 'What do I care about universality? I only know what is in me,' does not know even that.
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Invention despoils observations, insinuation invalidates memory. A stewpot of bad habits, all of it - so that imaginative writers wind up, by and large, a shifty crew, sunk in distortion, misrepresentation, illusion, imposture, fakery.
Cynthia Ozick
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In 1952, I had gone to England on a literary pilgrimage, but what I also saw, even at that distance from the blitz, were bombed-out ruins and an enervated society, while the continent was still, psychologically, in the grip of its recent atrocities.
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The imagination is a species of knowledge, knowledge that can take the form of discovery.
Cynthia Ozick
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Traveling is seeing it is the implicit that we travel by.
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The butterfly lures us not only because he is beautiful, but because he is transitory. The caterpillar is uglier, but in him we can regard the better joy of becoming.
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