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Veils of love which was only hate petrified by longing--that was me.

Louise Erdrich

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Louise Erdrich
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 7
Novelist
Poet
Short Story Writer
Writer
Little Falls
Minnesota
Veils
Longing
Hate
Love
Petrified

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The contents of a house can trigger all sorts of revisions to family history.
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Her clothes were filled with safety pins and hidden tears.
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To sew is to pray. Men don't understand this. They see the whole but they don't see the stitches. They don't see the speech of the creator in the work of the needle.
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A woman's body is the gate to this life. A man's body is the gate to the next life.
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Now that I knew fear, I also knew it was not permanent. As powerful as it was, its grip on me would loosen. It would pass.
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What is this life but the sound of an appalling love.
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I have brothers and was a tomboy, if that's still a designation. It wasn't a stretch for me to think and write as a 13-year-old boy - it is freeing.
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People forget the good, because the bad has more punch.
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I spend my time dwelling on revenge and try to deal with the monsters crawling out of the ashes.
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The length of sky is just about the size of my ignorance. Pure and wide.
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We all got holes in our lives. Nobody dies in a perfect garment.
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I truly think that you can't go and stalk your material, you have to leave the door open and whatever chooses you, chooses you. You can't go and wrestle it to the ground.
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By writing I can live in ways that I could not survive.
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I knew each person's delusion, the places their records had scratched, where the sounds repeated.
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When we are young, the words are scattered all around us. As they are assembled by experience, so also are we, sentence by sentence, until the story takes shape.
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Right and wrong were shades of meaning, not sides of a coin.
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Being a girl didn't really affect me until I entered junior high and had to wear skirts, curl my hair, and even get used to panty hose. However, my hatred of panty hose helped make me a writer who only wears comfortable clothes. I've successfully avoided panty hose for most of my life.
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Her mind was present because she was always gone. Her hands were filled because they grasped the meaning of empty. Life was simple. Her husband returned and she served him with indifferent patience this time. When he asked what had happened to her heat for him, she gestured to the west. The sun was setting. The sky was a body of fire.
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The universe is transformation.
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I stood there in the shadowed doorway thinking with my tears. Yes, tears can be thoughts, why not?
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