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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.
Michael Cunningham
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Michael Cunningham
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: November 6
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Thinking
Writer
Package
World
Simply
Benign
People
Living
Disregard
Feelings
Packages
Part
Entity
Certain
Slightly
Good
Cruel
Think
Entirely
More quotes by Michael Cunningham
People are more than you think they are. And they're less, as well. The trick lies in negotiating your way between the two.
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We always worry about the wrong things, don't we?
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Her cake is a failure, but she is loved anyway. She is loved, she thinks, in more or less the way the gifts will be appreciated: because they have been given with good intentions , because they exist, because they are part of a world in which one wants what one gets.
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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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One always has a better book in one's mind than one can manage to get onto paper.
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Please, God, send me something to adore.
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Perhaps, in the extravagance of youth, we give away our devotions easily and all but arbitrarily, on the mistaken assumption that we’ll always have more to give.
Michael Cunningham
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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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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. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.
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You can't find peace by avoiding life.
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As writers we must, from our very opening sentence, speak with authority to our readers.
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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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Dead, we are revealed in our true dimensions, and they are surprisingly modest.
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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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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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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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I seem to produce a novel approximately once every three years.
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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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a certain bohemian, good-witch sort of charm
Michael Cunningham
