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the instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms

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
Body
Slipped
Instant
Arms
Loved
Knew

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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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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.
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There are two categories of writers, it could be said: The author who is just a voice, and the one who is also creating a picture. I belong to the latter, because I have an acute visual sense.
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Be willing to die for your beliefs, or computer printouts of your beliefs.
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The world isn't going to be destroyed, but you don't feel safe anymore in your plane or train or office or auditorium.
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I've come to think of Europe as a hardcover book, America as the paperback version.
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It's my contention that each book creates its own structure and its own length. I've written three or four slim books. It may be that the next novel is a big one, but I don't know.
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To portray America over the past twenty years or so, I would think immediately of football, probably the Super Bowl in its sumptuous suggestion of a national death wish.
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A writer decides to follow some ideas and not others for reasons that aren't always clear to him. It's often a matter of intuition.
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It is all falling indelibly into the past.
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Just because it's on the radio doesn't mean we have to suspend belief in the evidence of our senses.
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It is possible to be homesick for a place even when you are there.
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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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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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The more things I threw away, the more I found.
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Clouds are no deterrent. Clouds intensify the drama, trap and shape the light.
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Something lurked inside the truth.
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Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It´s a settling of grievances between the present and the past.
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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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The less there was to see, the harder he looked, the more he saw. (Point Omega)
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