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Explain me to myself, you’ll make me choke on my lunch. Feel sympathy for me, I’ll puke monkey blood on your understated shoes.

Don DeLillo

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Don DeLillo
Age: 88
Born: 1936
Born: November 20
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
New York City
New York
Don Delillo
Donald Richard DeLillo
Blood
Puke
Feel
Monkey
Feels
Choke
Make
Monkeys
Sympathy
Lunch
Explain
Shoes
Understated

More quotes by Don DeLillo

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I've always liked being relatively obscure. I feel that's where I belong, that's where my work belongs.
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I marched and I protested against the war in Vietnam, along with many, many thousands of others. But I never quite understood the bombs that were placed in science labs or office buildings.
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People had no tolerance for your particular hardship unless you knew how to entertain them with it.
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I think that the massive, overarching, interconnected systems of technology tend to make us a little insecure, somewhat pliable, and susceptible to half-beliefs.
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holes are interesting. there are books about holes.
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There were moments when she wasn't talking so much as fading into time, dropping back into some funnelled stretch of recent past.
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I think fiction recues history from its confusions.
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If you know you're worth nothing, only a gamble with death can gratify your vanity.
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Ask yourself this question. Do we have to be humans forever? Consciousness is exhausted. Back now to inorganic matter. This is what we want. We want to be stones in a field.
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I like the construction of sentences and the juxtaposition of words-not just how they sound or what they mean, but even what they look like.
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Sometimes a thing that's hard is hard because you're doing it wrong. (Point Omega)
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In these night recitations we create a space between things as we felt them at the time and as we speak them now. This is the space reserved for irony, sympathy and fond amusement, the means by which we rescue ourselves from the past.
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I don't consider myself paranoid at all. I think I see things exactly as they are.
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It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.
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If I were a writer, how I would enjoy being told the novel is dead. How liberating to work in the margins, outside a central perception. You are the ghoul of literature. Lovely.
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Isn't death the boundary we need?
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Making things difficult for the reader is less an attack on the reader than it is on the age and its facile knowledge-market.
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The force of a death should be enormous but how can you know what kind of man you've killed or who was the braver and stronger if you have to peer through layers of glass that deliver the image but obscure the meaning of the act? War has a conscience or it's ordinary murder.
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People hurried past, the others of the street, endless anonymous, twenty-one lives per second, race-walking in their faces and pigments, sprays of fleetest being.
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Fear is unnatural. Lightning and thunder are unnatural. Pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. We can't bear these things as they are. We know too much. So we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. This is how we survive the universe. This is the natural language of the species.
Don DeLillo