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Delia picked at the raw sores of her conscience...Drunk or sober, Delia lived in the small town in her heart, ignoring the world in which all her love had turned to grief.

Dorothy Allison

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Dorothy Allison
Age: 75
Born: 1949
Born: April 11
Feminist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Greenville
South Carolina
World
Towns
Grief
Delia
Turned
Sores
Conscience
Ignoring
Lived
Sober
Small
Picked
Heart
Town
Love
Drunk

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Hunger makes you restless. you dream about food - not just any food, but perfect food, the best food, magical meals, famous and awe-inspiring, the one piece of meat, the exact taste of buttery corn, tomatoes so ripe they split and sweeten the air, beans so crisp they snap between the teeth, gravy like mother's milk singing to your bloodstream.
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I fell into shame like a suicide throws herself into a river. (253)
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I have a terrible memory.
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Two or three things I know for sure, and one is that I'd rather go naked than wear the coat the world has made for me.
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I did things I did not understand for reasons I could not begin to explain just to be in motion, to be trying to do something, change something in a world I wanted desperately to make over but could not imagine for myself.
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stories are the one sure way I know to touch the heart and change the world.
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Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is the way you can both hate and love something you are not sure you understand.
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Why write stories? To join the conversation.
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Women lose their lives not knowing they can do something different...I claimed myself and remade my life. Only when I knew I belonged to myself completely did I become capable of giving myself to another, of finding joy in desire, pleasure in our love, power in this body no one else owns.
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I think I would have died if there hadn't been the women's movement. It gave me a vision that I could do something different, and it gave me an understanding that I wasn't a monster, or sport, or a betrayer of my family.
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Behind my carefully buttoned collar is my nakedness, the struggle to find clean clothes, food, meaning, and money. Behind sex is rage, behind anger is love, behind this moment is silence, years of silence.
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fiction is the great lie that tells the truth
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Gravy is the simplest, tastiest, most memory-laden dish I know how to make: a little flour, salt and pepper, crispy bits of whatever meat anchored the meal, a couple of cups of water or milk and slow stirring to break up lumps.
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Twenty years after we had left so fierce and proud, we were all right back where we had started, yoked to each other and the same old drama.
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One of the strengths I derive from my class background is that I am accustomed to contempt.
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