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Something lurked inside the truth.

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
Inside
Truth
Something
Lurked

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the instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms
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Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it.
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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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Human existence had to have a deeper source than our own dank fluids. Dank or rank. There had to be a force behind it, a principal being who was and is and ever shall be.
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Out of some persistent sense of large-scale ruin, we kept inventing hope.
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There are times when you want to stop working at faith and just be washed in a blowing wind that tells you everything.
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What terrorists gain, novelists lose.
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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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Too much has been forgotten in the name of memory.
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People will always make comparisons.
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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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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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First you look for discipline and control. You want to exercise your will, bend the language your way, bend the world your way. You want to control the flow of impulses, images, words, faces, ideas. But there's a higher place, a secret aspiration. You want to let go. You want to lose yourself in language, become a carrier or messenger.
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The genius of rock music is that it matched the cultural hysteria around it.
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We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.
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Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself.
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Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.
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American writers ought to stand and live in the margins, and be more dangerous.
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People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.
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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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