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I stood there in the shadowed doorway thinking with my tears. Yes, tears can be thoughts, why not?

Louise Erdrich

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Louise Erdrich
Age: 70
Born: 1954
Born: June 7
Novelist
Poet
Short Story Writer
Writer
Little Falls
Minnesota
Shadowed
Doorway
Doorways
Stood
Tears
Thoughts
Thinking

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I am part of what she thinks is her illness, a symptom of which she thinks she has been cured. She, on the other hand, is what I was looking for.
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We all got holes in our lives. Nobody dies in a perfect garment.
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I don't pray. When I was young, I vowed I never would be caught begging God. If I want something I get it for myself. I go to church only to show the old hens they don't get me down.
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Here is the most telling fact: you wish to possess me. Here is another fact: I loved you and let you think you could.
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Veils of love which was only hate petrified by longing--that was me.
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Numbers, time, inches, feet. All are just ploys for cutting nature down to size.
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Life is made up of three kinds of people -- those who live it, those afraid to, those in between.
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Sometimes a person's monstrosity seems superhuman.
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Time is the water in which we live, and we breathe it like fish. ... Time pours into us and then pours out again. In between the two pourings we live our destiny.
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There is a legacy of violence against native women that has gotten worse and worse over time.
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People forget the good, because the bad has more punch.
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I got well by talking. Death could not get a word in edgewise, grew discouraged, and traveled on.
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The universe is transformation.
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I work really out of mythology, so often I work out of a story that has remained lodged inside somehow, or I work out of history, you know, out of a sense of historical inevitability with characters.
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Her clothes were filled with safety pins and hidden tears.
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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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I knew each person's delusion, the places their records had scratched, where the sounds repeated.
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I want to remember what bullshit looks like when weapons of mass destruction are diagrammed out and whacko intelligence is delivered in an ominous way to strike fear into people and especially to pull on the idealism and zeal of the young.
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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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Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they'll leave you, sure. There's no return to what was and no way back. There's just emptiness all around, and you in it, like singing up from the bottom of a well, like nothing else, until you harm yourself, until you are a mad dog biting yourself for sympathy. Because there is no relenting.
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