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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)

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
Stand
Stars
Light
Strictly
Stills
Shine
Doe
Trapped
Still
Shining
Time
Exist
Dead

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Every advance in knowledge and technique is matched by a new kind of death, a new strain. Death adapts, like a viral agent.
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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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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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Insanity's so personal. It's hard to know who shares our secrets.
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Something lurked inside the truth.
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In the American soul there is a lonely individual standing in a vast landscape.
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Why is it so hard to be serious, so easy to be too serious?
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Coming and going I am leaving. I will go and come. Leaving has come to me. We all, shall all, will all be left. Because I am here and where. And I will go or not or never. And I have seen what I will see. If I am where I will be. Because nothing comes between me.
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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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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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The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence.
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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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May the days be aimless. Do not advance action according to a plan.
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Past, present and future are not amenities of language. Time unfolds into the seamsof being. It passes through you, making and shaping.
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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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I'd like to lose interest in myself.
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Why shouldn't the death of a person you love bring you into lurid ruin? You don't know how to love the one you love until they disappear abruptly. Then you understand how thinly distanced from their suffering, how sparing of self you often were, only rarely unguarded of heart, working your networks of give-and-take.
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Out of some persistent sense of large-scale ruin, we kept inventing hope.
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