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Silly humans. Banging on a tub to make a bear dance when we would move the stars to pity.

Michael Cunningham

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Michael Cunningham
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: November 6
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Dance
Move
Stars
Tubs
Moving
Banging
Humans
Pity
Make
Silly
Would
Bear
Bears

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The secret of flight is this -- you have to do it immediately, before your body realizes it is defying the laws.
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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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Youth is the only sexy tragedy. It's James Dean jumping into his Porsche Spyder, it's Marilyn heading off to bed.
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What I want to say is that I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. Everything is gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
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I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself: So, this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.
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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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Love is deep, a mystery - who wants to understand its every particular?
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Dead, we are revealed in our true dimensions, and they are surprisingly modest.
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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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This is what you do. You make a future for yourself out of the raw material at hand.
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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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The lives great artists live and the books they write are two very different things.
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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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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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..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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On a summer night it can be lovely to sit around outside with friends after dinner and, yes, read poetry to each other. Keats and Yeats will never let you down, but it's differently exciting to read the work of poets who are still walking around out there.
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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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. . . he felt himself entering a moment so real he could only run toward it, shouting.
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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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