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My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.

Mark Z. Danielewski

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Mark Z. Danielewski
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: March 5
Author
Novelist
Prosaist
Writer
New York City
New York
Tree
Nibbling
Hands
Ceaselessly
Earth
Resemble
Bind
Ancient
Roots
Rock
Rocks

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One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.
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No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
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Not all complex problems have easy solutions so says science (so warns science.)
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Here then - the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.
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At the breakfast table we are footnoting everything that we read. We don't recognise it as such but we encounter an article in the newspaper and then suddenly we recall that a friend had a certain comment on that particular story, a certain bit of news that we saw on the television applies to that and we immediately assemble an idea of a story.
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Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.
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I do not know anything about Art with a capital A. What I do know about is my art. Because it concerns me. I do not speak for others. So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others. My art, however, speaks for me. It lights my way.
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Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.
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Even the closest relationships that I have I know could potentially fall away. That's not to speak pessimistically or negatively about those relationships. In a weird way, it's the opposite. I value them.
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I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real
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I think that's what finally stopped me. I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.
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Anger is one way to respond to fear. I say one way because responses are categorically multiple.
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Literature is capable of being a subject that people want to catch up on or discuss, whether at a coffee shop or a watercooler. It can become an intrinsic part of their dialogue.
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Through all the windows I only see infinity.
Mark Z. Danielewski
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Back on shore everyone was pretty messed up, but the owner/captain was by far the worst off. He ended up drunk for a week, though the only thing he ever said was So? The boat's gone. So? Your mate's dead. So? Hey at least you're alive. So? An awful word but it does harden you. It hardened me.
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Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.
Mark Z. Danielewski
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Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.
Mark Z. Danielewski
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And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
Mark Z. Danielewski
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Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.
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I'm not independently wealthy.
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