Quote

She returned his gaze, struck by the sense of her own transformation, and overwhelmed by the beauty which a lifetime havit had taught her to ignore.

Ian Mcewan

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Ian Mcewan
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: June 21
Author
Film Producer
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Belfast
Ireland
Transformation
Lifetime
Taught
Beauty
Returned
Sense
Gaze
Overwhelmed
Struck
Ignore

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He who hesitates is not only lost, but miles from the next exit.
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No emergency was ever dealt with effectively by democratic process.
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I wouldn't mind being the lead guitarist in an incredibly successful rock band. However, I don't play the guitar.
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There are ways in which art can have a longer reach than politics.
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What reader wants to be told what attitude to strike?
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Not being boring is quite a challenge.
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I'm quite good at not writing.
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Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment's thought, and that would take time.
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It is not the first duty of the novelist to provide blueprints for insurrection, or uplifting tales of successful resistance for the benefit of the opposition. The naming of what is there is what is important.
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This is the pain-pleasure of having newly adult children they're innocent and ruthless in forgetting their sweet old dependence.
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No one knew about the squirrel’s skull beneath Briony bed, but no one wanted to know.
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The anticipation and dread he felt at seeing her was also a kind of sensual pleasure, and surrounding it, like an embrace, was a general elation--it might hurt, it was horribly inconvenient, no good might come of it, but he had found out for himself what it was to be in love, and it thrilled him.
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We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.
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I've yet to meet somebody who said, 'Your stories are so revolting I couldn't read them.'
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Daylight seemed then to be the physical manifestation of common sense.
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These memories sustained him, but not so easily. Too often they reminded him of where he was when he last summoned them. They lay on the far side of a great divide in time, as significant as B.C. and A.D. Before prison, before the war, before the sight of a corpse became a banality.
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She wanted to leave, she wanted to lie alone face down on her bed and savor the vile piquancy of the moment, and go back down the lines of branching consequences to the point before the destruction began. She needed to contemplate with eyes closed the full richness of what she had lost, what she had given away, and to anticipate the new regime.
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A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended.
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But to do its noticing and judging, poetry balances itself on the pinprick of the moment. Slowing down, stopping yourself completely, to read and understand a poem is like trying to acquire an old-fashioned skill.
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Novelists have to be adept at controlling the flow of information, and, most crucially, they have to be in charge of the narrative.
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