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A changeableness, too, as if beneath my visible face there was another, having second thoughts.

Jeffrey Eugenides

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Jeffrey Eugenides
Age: 64
Born: 1960
Born: March 8
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
Detroit
Michigan
Jeffrey Kent Eugenides
Beneath
Prose
Visible
Thoughts
Second
Face
Faces
Another

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No matter how long your've been at it, you always start from scratch.
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She understood that her heart operated on its own instructions, that she had no control over it or, indeed, anything else.
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Household objects lost meaning. A bedside clock became a hunk of molded plastic, telling something called time, in a world marking it's passage for some reason.
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I have a good memory for early life. My visual memory is good about childhood and adolescence, and less good in the last 10 years. I could probably tell you less what happened in the last 10 years. I remember what houses looked like, sometimes they just pop into my head.
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A seven-year-old girl can take only so many walks with her grandfather.
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One of the reasons that art is important to me is sometimes it actually feels more coherent than life. It orders the chaos.
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Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.
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There are some books that reached through the noise of life to grab you by the collar and speak only of the truest things.
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I have a lot of novels that I haven't finished. I usually get 150 pages in and I realize it's not going anywhere. I don't publish everything I write. I must have six unfinished novels at least.
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What lingered after them was not life, which always overcomes natural death, but the most trivial list of mundane facts: a clock ticking on a wall, a room dim at noon, and the outrageousness of a human being thinking only of herself.
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In Madeleine's face was a stupidity Mitchell had never seen before. It was the stupidity of all normal people. It was the stupidity of the fortunate and the beautiful, of everybody who got what they wanted in life and so remained unremarkable.
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There have been hermaphrodites around forever, Cal. Forever. Plato said that the original human being was a hermaphrodite. Did you know that? The original person was two halves, one male, one female. Then these got separated. That's why everybody's always searching for their other half. Except for us. We've got both halves already.
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What I do when I create a character is put in details from all the people I know who might be like that person, and then put in a huge amount of myself.
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I'm not really an autobiographical writer, though I use lots of stuff from my life to make my stories seem real. But when I actually write about myself, I get very confused.
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Everyone struggles against despair, but it always wins in the end. It has to. It's the thing that lets us say goodbye.
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I always work in a room where there's no Internet to keep from being distracted so easily.
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He remained heartbroken, which meant one of two things: either his love was pure and true and earthshakingly significant or he was addicted to feeling forlorn, he liked being heartbroken.
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I went into the desert to forget about you. But the sand was the color of your hair. The desert sku was the color of your eyes. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn't be you.
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Added to their loveliness was a new mysterious suffering, perfectly silent, visible in the blue puffiness beneath their eyes or the way they would sometimes stop in mid-stride, look down, and shake their heads as though disagreeing with life.
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