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I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

Michael Cunningham

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Michael Cunningham
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: November 6
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Two
Think
Thinking
People
Happier
Hours

More quotes by Michael Cunningham

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A certain slightly cruel disregard for the feelings of living people is simply part of the package. I think a writer, if hes any good, is not an entirely benign entity in the world.
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I just don't feel much interested in the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
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Here's a secret. Many novelists, if they are pressed and if they are being honest, will admit that the finished book is a rather rough translation of the book they'd intended to write.
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Venture too far for love, she tells herself, and you renounce citizenship in the country you've made for yourself.
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I suspect any serious reader has a first great book, just the way anybody has a first kiss.
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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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We always worry about the wrong things, don't we?
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We’d hoped for love of a different kind, love that knew and forgave our human frailty but did not miniaturize our grander ideas of ourselves.
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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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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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Accept that, like many men, you have a streak of the homoerotic in you. Why would you, why would anyone, want to be that straight?
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we become the stories we tell ourselves
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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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You want to give him the book of his own life, the book that will locate him, parent him, arm him for the changes.
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Silly humans. Banging on a tub to make a bear dance when we would move the stars to pity.
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. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.
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I have no useful theories about love and marriage.
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What a thrill, what a shock, to be alive on a morning in June, prosperous, almost scandalously privileged, with a simple errand to run.
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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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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.
Michael Cunningham