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

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If you reveal everything, bare every feeling, ask for understanding, you lose something crucial to your sense of yourself. You need to know things that others don't know. It's what no one knows about you that allows you to know yourself.
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The smoke alarm went off in the hallway upstairs, either to let us know the battery had just died or because the house was on fire.
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Something lurked inside the truth.
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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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We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.
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You gave yourself away, word by word, every time you opened your trap to speak.
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All plots tend to move deathward. This is the nature of plots.
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I'd like to lose interest in myself.
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I have only a bare working knowledge of the human brain but it's enough to make me proud to be an American.
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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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Sometimes a thing that's hard is hard because you're doing it wrong. (Point Omega)
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Too much has been forgotten in the name of memory.
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... there was an honesty inherent in bulkiness if it is just the right amount.
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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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Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn.
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Isn't death the boundary we need?
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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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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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Bloomberg weighed three hundred pounds. This itself was historical. I revered his weight. It was an affirmation of humanity's reckless potential it went beyond legend and returned through mist to the lovely folly of history. To weigh three hundred pounds. What devout vulgarity.
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In this century the writer has carried on a conversation with madness. We might almost say of the twentieth-century writer that he aspires to madness. Some have made it, of course, and they hold special places in our regard. To a writer, madness is a final distillation of self, a final editing down. It's the drowning out of false voices.
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