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An agony. The exit like the entrance - but reserved. A palindrome: gut-tug.

Lorrie Moore

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Lorrie Moore
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: January 13
Faculty Member
Novelist
Writer
Glens Falls
New York
Like
Entrance
Entrances
Heartbreak
Exit
Reserved
Agony
Guts

More quotes by Lorrie Moore

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Writers have no real area of expertise. They are merely generalists with a highly inflamed sense of punctuation.
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She hadn't been given the proper tools to make a real life with, she decided, that was it. She'd been given a can of gravy and a hairbrush and told, There you go. -- Willing
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I did think reviewers were supposed to be polite about story collections - collections are rather delicate creatures in the literary environment - but not everybody got this memo, I guess.
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An author's life is different, complex, and ongoing, while a character's remains frozen in one little story.
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Don't make your own life your project in your own life: total waste of time.
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Rather than a teaching tool, I think a novel is more of a witnessing entity. A witnessing entity? What is that? I just want the reader to step in and experience it as a story.
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If God Speaks Through Burning Bushes, Let's Burn Bush and Listen to What God Says.
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If you look at most womens writing, women writers will describe women differently from the way male writers describe women. The details that go into a woman writers description of a female character are, perhaps, a little more judgmental. Theyre looking for certain things, because they know what women do to look a certain way.
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No matter what terror the earth could produce - winds, seas - a person could produce the same, lived with the same, lived with all that mixed-up nature swirling inside, every bit. There was nothing as complex in the world - no flower or stone - as a single hello from a human being.
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She smiled at him, with longing. 'Where do you live,' she asked, 'and how do I get there?
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A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph a novel is a film.
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The affectionate farce I make of him ignores the ways I feel his lack of love for me. But we are managing.
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But family life sometimes had a vortex, like weather. It could be like a tornado in a quiet zigzag: get close enough and you might see within it a spinning eighteen-wheeler and a woman.
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Love drains you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering the clocks stop and go and stop.
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They had, finally, the only thing anyone really wants in life: someone to hold your hand when you die.
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Nothing's a joke with me. It just all comes out like one.
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Her life her life had taken on the shape of a terrible mistake. She hadn't been given the proper tools to make a real life with, she decided, that was it. She'd been given a can of gravy and a hair-brush and told, There you go. She'd stood there for years, blinking and befuddled, brushing the can with the brush.
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All the world's a stage we're going through.
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If you're suicidal, and you don't actually kill yourself, you become known as 'wry.
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But that inadequacy, or feeling of inadequacy, never really goes away. You just have to trudge ahead in the rain, regardless.
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