Quote

The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.

Patricia Hampl

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Patricia Hampl
Age: 78
Born: 1946
Born: March 12
Memoirist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Making
Snow
Quieter
Night
Seasons
Milky
Together
Winter
Partake
Everything
Seemed
Haze
Way
Pride
January
Cold
Solemn
Beauty
Fell
Religion
Season
Hushed

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Poverty didn't necessarily engender an envy of wealth sometimes it might beget a passion for decency.
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No memoirists writes for long without experiencing an unsettling disbelief about the reliability of memory, a hunch that memory is not, after all, just memory.
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poetry is the sung voice of accurate perception.
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A peculiarity of the American historical sensibility allows us to be proud of great-grandfathers (or even grandfathers) who lived in crushing poverty, while the poverty of a father is too close for comfort.
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Pondering was the highest vocation... Pondering was a special kind of thinking. It was not done in the mind, that chilly place, but in the heart, where the real mystery of intelligence - intuition - rather than thought lay catlike and feminine, ready to pounce.
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Silence, that inspired dealer, takes the day's deck, the life, all in a crazy heap, lays it out, and plays its flawless hand of solitaire, every card in place. Scoops them up, and does it all over again.
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Writing was the soul of everything else ... Wanting to be a writer was wanting to be a person.
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Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.
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The artist's work, it is sometimes said, is to celebrate. But really that is not so it is to express wonder. And something terrible resides at the heart of wonder. Celebration is social, amenable. Wonder has a chaotic splendor.
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Prayer as focus is not a way of limiting what can be seen it is a habit of attention brought to bear on all that is.
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Planes are my foxhole. I'm always on my knees in them.
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The world is full of mystery but it must not be choked with secrets: we must talk to one another.
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People come and go in life, but they never leave your dreams. Once they're in your subconscious, they are immortal.
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I come from people who have always been polite enough to feel that nothing has ever happened to them.
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I could tell you stories-if only stories could tell what I have in me to tell.
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In memory each of us is an artist: each of us creates.
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We store in memory only images of value. The value may be lost over the passage of time, but that's the implacable judgment of feeling.
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You can’t put much on paper before you betray your secret self, try as you will to keep things civil.
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