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Cecilia wondered, as she sometimes did when she met a man for the first time, if this was the one she was going to marry, and whether it was this particular moment she would remember for the rest of her life - with gratitude, or profound and particular regret.

Ian Mcewan

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Ian Mcewan
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: June 21
Author
Film Producer
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Belfast
Ireland
Men
Moment
Marry
Time
Moments
Mets
Life
Remember
Profound
Firsts
Gratitude
First
Regret
Sometimes
Rest
Going
Particular
Cecilia
Would
Whether
Wondered

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He was looking at her with amused suspicion. There was something between them, and even she had to acknowledge that a tame remark about the weather sounded perverse.
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He had never before felt so self-consciously young, nor experienced such appetite, such impatience for the story to begin.
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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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None of us really either know the circumstances of our death or are likely to exert as much control over it as we would like to, but we can certainly have a little more say in it if we are terminally ill than we have at the moment. That's the element of dignity, but sure, life is very hard to organise even when you are fit and healthy.
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I think the novel, its business is the investigation of human nature.
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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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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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I've yet to meet somebody who said, 'Your stories are so revolting I couldn't read them.'
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...the world she ran through loved her and would give her what she wanted and would let it happen.
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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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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.
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Imagining what it is like to be someone other than yourself is at the core of our humanity. It is the essence of compassion, and it is the beginning of morality.
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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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And though you think the world is at your feet, it can rise up and tread on you.
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I like to think that it isn't weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion and despair.
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It was always the view of my parents...that hot weather encouraged loose morals among young people.
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And feeling clever, I've always thought, is just a sigh away from being cheerful.
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At that moment, the urge to be writing was stronger than any notion she had of what she might write.
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The cost of oblivious daydreaming was always this moment of return, the realignment with what had been before and now seemed a little worse.
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Daylight seemed then to be the physical manifestation of common sense.
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