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Dying in unfamiliar surroundings miles away from home, it cannot possibly be good. There is a great sadness about that I think.

Ian Mcewan

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Ian Mcewan
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: June 21
Author
Film Producer
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Belfast
Ireland
Dying
Away
Cannot
Home
Unfamiliar
Great
Surroundings
Good
Possibly
Think
Miles
Thinking
Sadness

More quotes by Ian Mcewan

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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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In that shrinking moment he discovered that he had never hated anyone until now. It was a feeling as pure as love, but dispassionate and icily rational.
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...beauty, she had discovered occupied a narrow band. Ugliness, on the hand, had infinite variation.
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Daylight seemed then to be the physical manifestation of common sense.
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The best way to tell people about climate change is through non-fiction. There's a vast literature of outstanding writing on the subject.
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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 apologize for being obvious, but every time I watch the curtain come down on even a halfway decent production of a Shakespeare play I feel a little sorrowful that I'll never know the man, or any man of such warm intelligence.
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I do have a very strong sense that most of the terrible things in life happen suddenly and unpredictably, and certainly can sweep you off in different directions, and that is always of interest to a novelist.
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The evasions of her little novel were exactly those of her life. Everything she did not wish to confront was also missing from her novella--and was necessary to it.
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There are ways in which art can have a longer reach than politics.
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It was thought, perception, sensations that interested her, the conscious mind as a river through time, and how to represent its onward roll, as well as all the tributaries that would swell it, and the obstacles that would divert it. If only she could reproduce the clear light of a summer's morning.
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When anything can happen, everything matters.
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I'm quite good at not writing.
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I believe the novella is the perfect form of prose fiction.
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She had lolled about for three years at Girton with the kind of books she could equally have read at home--Jane Austen, Dickens, Conrad, all in the library downstairs, in complete sets. How had that pursuit, reading the novels that others took as their leisure, let her think she was superior to anyone else?
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i'm going mad, i told myself. let me not be mad.
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Politics is the enemy of the imagination.
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Finally, you had to measure yourself by other people - there really was nothing else. every now and then, quite unintentionally, someone taught you something about yourself.
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London in the '70s was a pretty catastrophic dump, I can tell you. We had every kind of industrial trouble we had severe energy problems we were under constant terrorist attack from Irish terrorist groups who had started a bombing campaign in English cities politics were fantastically polarized between left and right.
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When they kissed she immediately felt his tongue, tensed and strong, pushing past her teeth, like some bully shouldering his way into a room. Entering her.
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