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What I felt then I feel now: the inexorable, unchanging interior hum of doubt and hope.

Cynthia Ozick

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Cynthia Ozick
Age: 96
Born: 1928
Born: April 17
Novelist
Writer
New York City
New York
Felt
Feel
Feels
Inexorable
Unchanging
Interior
Interiors
Doubt
Hope

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In saying what is obvious, never choose cunning. Yelling works better.
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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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Two things remain irretrievable: time and a first impression.
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The imagination has resources and intimations we don't even know about.
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The power of language, it seems to me, is the only kind of power a writer is entitled to.
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The imagination is a species of knowledge, knowledge that can take the form of discovery.
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The usefulness of madmen is famous: they demonstrate society's logic flagrantly carried out down to its last scrimshaw scrap.
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We often take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.
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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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Old saws have no teeth.
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Awe consumes any brand that ignites it.
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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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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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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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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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very bright teeth as big and orderly as piano keys.
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... woman is frequently praised as the more creative sex. She does not need to make poems, it is argued she has no drive to make poems, because she is privileged to make babies. A pregnancy is as fulfilling as, say, Yeats' Sailing to Byzantium.... To call a child a poem may be a pretty metaphor, but it is a slur on the labor of art.
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I think about fanaticism - oblivion awaits, especially for minor writers, so you have to be a fanatic you have to be a crank to keep going, but on the other hand, what else would you do with the rest of your life? You gotta do something.
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In books, as in life, there are no second chances. On second thought: its the next work, still to be written, that offers the second chance.
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We have had, alas, and still have, the doubtful habit of reverence. Above all, we respect things as they are.
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