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. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.

Michael Cunningham

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Michael Cunningham
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: November 6
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Shouting
Entering
Toward
Moment
Felt
Running
Moments
Real

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These days, Clarissa believes, you measure people first by their kindness and their capacity for devotion. You get tired, sometimes, of wit and intellect everybody's little display of genius.
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Take me with you. I want a doomed love. I want streets at night, wind and rain, no one wondering where I am.
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There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more.
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I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
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Here is the world, and you live in it, and are grateful. You try to be grateful.
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..this indiscriminate love feels entirely serious to her, as if everything in the world is part of a vast, inscrutable intention and everything in the world has its own secret name, a name that cannot be conveyed in language but is simply the sight and feel of the thing itself.
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One always has a better book in one's mind than one can manage to get onto paper.
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I have no useful theories about love and marriage.
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But there are still the hours, aren't there? One and then another, and you get through that one and then, my god, there's another.
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Any other vexations to report? he asks. I love the word 'vexations.' It's the 'x.' Nice to jump off a 'v' and bite into an 'x' like that. Just the usual ones, she says. How was the weekend? Vexing. Not really, I just wanted to say it. You?
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There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined.
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I revise constantly, as I go along and then again after I've finished a first draft. Few of my novels contain a single sentence that closely resembles the sentence I first set down. I just find that I have to keep zapping and zapping the English language until it starts to behave in some way that vaguely matches my intentions.
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What does it mean to regret when you have no choice? It's what you can bear. And there it is... It was death. I chose life.
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Please, God, send me something to adore.
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It's the world, you live in it, even if some boy has made a fool of you.
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You could say I don't want for me be seen primarily as a gay writer. I've never hidden my sexuality. It matters that I'm gay, it matters that I'm white, it matters that I'm male, it matters that I'm American. But basically it's just less and less of a big deal.
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You can't find peace by avoiding life.
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Love is deep, a mystery - who wants to understand its every particular?
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Man, he said, I'm not afraid of graveyards. The dead are just, you know, people who wanted the same things you and I want. What do we want? I asked blurrily. Aw, man, you know, he said. We just want, well, the same things these people wanted. What was that? He shrugged. To live, I guess, he said.
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As writers we must, from our very opening sentence, speak with authority to our readers.
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