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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.

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
Right
Stopped
Feel
Edges
Feels
Legs
Slid
Think
Finally
Temperature
Thinking
Wind
Hanging
Terrible
Emptiness
Sound
Edge
Change
Reaching

More quotes by Mark Z. Danielewski

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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 still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
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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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Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.
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No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
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I will walk heavy, and I will walk strange.
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Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.
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Here then - the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.
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And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
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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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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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You got a death wish, Truant?' Which was the thing that scared me. 'Cause maybe I did.
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Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.
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My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.
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Who has never killed an hour?
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Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.
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My interest is in how meaning is communicated via language, and I believe the shape, positioning, even the color of the language has an effect on meaning.
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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 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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...life's big. If you can't fix it, give it a spin.
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