Quote

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.

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
People
Walking
Pigment
Streets
Hurried
Second
Anonymous
Race
Spray
Faces
Twenty
Lives
Twenties
Others
Endless
Sprays
Past
Street
Pigments

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Mirrors and images. Or sex and love. These are two separate systems that we miserably try to link.
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Sometimes a thing that's hard is hard because you're doing it wrong. (Point Omega)
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Sex finds us. Sex sees through us. That's why it's so shattering. It strips us of appearances.
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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.
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Stories have no point if they don't absorb our terror.
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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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In the American soul there is a lonely individual standing in a vast landscape.
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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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The genius of rock music is that it matched the cultural hysteria around it.
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Sometimes I see something so moving I know I’m not supposed to linger. See it and leave. If you stay too long, you wear out the wordless shock. Love it and trust it and leave.
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Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.
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Clouds are no deterrent. Clouds intensify the drama, trap and shape the light.
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...Because what's the meaning of doing dishes if you're not driven by something beyond necessity.
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Out of some persistent sense of large-scale ruin, we kept inventing hope.
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I've got death inside me. It's just a question of whether or not I can outlive it.
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Everything I've stated may prove to be total poppycock.... Perhaps time will tell. Perhaps time will do nothing of the kind.
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The more things I threw away, the more I found.
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A mystery novel localizes the awesome force of the real death outside the book, winds it tightly in a plot.
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Because friends have to be brutally honest with each other. I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you what I was thinking, especially at a time like this
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I felt myself getting whiter... What does it mean to become white? How does it feel to see Death in the flesh, come to gather you in?
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