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It took courage to let things fall apart so beautifully.

Jeffrey Eugenides

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Jeffrey Eugenides
Age: 64
Born: 1960
Born: March 8
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
Detroit
Michigan
Jeffrey Kent Eugenides
Things
Neatness
Balconies
Beautifully
Apart
Took
Courage
Fall

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The window was still open.” Mr Lisbon said. “I don’t think we’d ever remembered to shut it. It was all clear to me. I knew I had to close it or else she’d go on jumping out of it forever
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In the end, the tortures tearing the Lisbon girls pointed to a simple reasoned refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to them, so full of flaws.
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The mind self-edits. The mind airbrushes. It's a different thing to be inside a body than outside. From outside, you can look, inspect, compare. From inside there is no comparison.
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A seven-year-old girl can take only so many walks with her grandfather.
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Yes, you need a passport to prove to the world that you exist. The people at passport control, they cannot look at you and see you are a person. No! They have to look at a little photograph of you. Then they believe you exist.
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The Pulitzer Prize is an idea it's a vote of confidence. Like literature, it exists purely in the mind.
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The zipper opened all the way down our spines.
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All wisdom ends in paradox.
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We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature who put a razor to her wrists and opened her veins, the emptiness and the calm.
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We listened to them, but it was clear they'd received too much therapy to know the truth.
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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 think the suicides in my first book came from the idea of growing up in Detroit. If you grow up in a city like that you feel everything is perishing, evanescent and going away very quickly.
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You can tell when something's not moving forward anymore. When the doubts you have about it don't go away.
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We realized that the version of the world they rendered for us was not the version of the world they really believed in.
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Winter is the season of alcoholism and despair.
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On their best days, writers all over the world are winning Pulitzers, all alone in their studios, with no one watching.
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