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Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself.

Don DeLillo

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Don DeLillo
Age: 87
Born: 1936
Born: November 20
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
New York City
New York
Don Delillo
Donald Richard DeLillo
Upon
Lost
Money
Way
Time
Narrative
Painting
Quality
Talking

More quotes by Don DeLillo

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I used to think it was possible for an artist to alter the inner life of the culture. Now bomb-makers and gunmen have taken that territory.
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A Catholic is raised with the idea that he will die any minute now and if he doesn't live his life in a certain way, this death is an introduction to an eternity of pain.
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He took pains to avoid self-depreciation, self-mockery, ambiguity, irony, subtlety, vulnerability, a civilized world-weariness and a tragic sense of history--the very things, he says, that are most natural to him.
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I'd like to lose interest in myself.
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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 important for him to believe that he'd spent his life among people who kept missing the point.
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Hardship makes the world obscure.
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Everyone who does not live in Berlin lives in Brooklyn now.
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Doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?' What good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? It's an anxious quivering thing
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I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next. But I will spend the rest of my life in this living space writing these notes, this journal, recording my acts and reflections, finding some honor, some worth at the bottom of things. I want ten thousand pages that will stop the world.
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I think if you maintain a force in the world that comes into people's sleep, you are exercising a meaningful power.
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There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time. Where do I stand in this light, which does not strictly exist? (155)
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There are times when you want to stop working at faith and just be washed in a blowing wind that tells you everything.
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I never wanted to change the world. Norman Mailer wanted to, he set himself the task of changing the consciousness of our age. And I think he came pretty close, in the 1960s, to actually managing to do it. But me? No, no, I never wanted anything like that. I'm not Maileresque.
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I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next.
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I would never write in response to what I believe the public wanted or needed.
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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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I am not comfortable with abstract writing, stories that look like essays: you have to see, I need to see.
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Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.
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What did it mean, the first time, a thinking creature looked deeply into another's eyes? Did it take a hundred thousand years before this happened or it was the first thing they did, transcendingly, the thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls?
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