Quote

I sometimes go back to walk through the ghostly remains of Sutton Place where the rude, new buildings stand squarely in one another's river views.

John Cheever

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John Cheever
Age: 70 †
Born: 1912
Born: May 27
Died: 1982
Died: June 18
Diarist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Quincy
Massachusetts
John William Cheever
Place
Rivers
Back
Remains
Sometimes
Walk
Sutton
Building
Squarely
Walks
Ghostly
Views
Buildings
Stand
Rude
Another
River

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The main emotion of the adult American who has had all the advantages of wealth, education, and culture is disappointment.
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Homesickness is . . . absolutely nothing. Fifty percent of the people in the world are homesick all the time. . . . You don't really long for another country. You long for something in yourself that you don't have, or haven't been able to find.
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That's the way I remember them, heading for an exit.
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A collection of short stories is generally thought to be a horrendous clinker an enforced courtesy for the elderly writer who wants to display the trophies of his youth, along with his trout flies.
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Sometimes the easiest-seeming stories to a reader are the hardest kind to write.
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Art is the triumph over chaos.
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The organizations of men, like men themselves, seem subject to deafness, near-sightedness, lameness, and involuntary cruelty. We seem tragically unable to help one another, to understand one another.
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Only the opium eater truly understands the pain of death.
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Avoid kneeling in unheated stone churches. Ecclesiastical dampness causes prematurely grey hair.
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I look up the telephone number of Alcoholics Anonymous. Then, my hands shaking, I open the bar and drink the leftover whiskey, gin and vermouth-whatever I can lay my shaking hands on.
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The poet or storyteller who feels that he is competing with a superb double play in the World Series is a lost man. One would not want as a reader a man who did not appreciate the finesse of a double play.
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Fiction is art and art is the triumph over chaos… to celebrate a world that lies spread out around us like a bewildering and stupendous dream.
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Then it is dark it is a night where kings in golden suits ride elephants over the mountains.
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I dream that my face appears on a postage stamp.
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A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey's gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind.
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My veins are filled, once a week with a Neapolitan carpet cleaner distilled from the Adriatic and I am as bald as an egg. However I still get around and am mean to cats.
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I was here on earth because I chose to be.
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The short story is the literature of the nomad.
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