Quote

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.

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
Pass
Dusk
Silence
Texture
Small
Bone
Year
Chill
Something
Iron
Years
Bones
Things
Sadness
Time
Lonely
Insistent

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She became confused when she stepped onto an escalator that wasn't working.
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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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I see contemporary violence as a kind of sardonic response to the promise of consumer fulfilment in America.
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American writers ought to stand and live in the margins, and be more dangerous.
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The world is shrinking into a kind of technological funnel. I think people are drawn into their technological devices, and this becomes a kind of subjective universe, into which much of the rest of the world simply does not enter.
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I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next.
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A shrewd person would one day start a religion based on coincidence, if he hasn't already, and make a million.
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That's why people take vacations. No to relax or find excitement or see new places. To escape the death that exists in routine things.
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The family was an art ... and the dinner table was the place it found expression.
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I'd like to lose interest in myself.
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Words are not necessary to one's experience of the true life.
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The more things I threw away, the more I found.
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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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It is all falling indelibly into the past.
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The force of a death should be enormous but how can you know what kind of man you've killed or who was the braver and stronger if you have to peer through layers of glass that deliver the image but obscure the meaning of the act? War has a conscience or it's ordinary murder.
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We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.
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The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence.
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Murray said, ´I don´t trust anybody´s nostalgia but my own. Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It´s a settling of grievances between the present and the past. The more powerful the nostalgia, the closer you come to violence. War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.´
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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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