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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
Night
Seasons
Milky
Together
Winter
Partake
Everything
Seemed
Haze
Way
Pride
January
Cold
Solemn
Beauty
Fell
Religion
Season
Hushed
Making
Snow
Quieter

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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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The future is here, now, and the past is full of actual deeds, real history. Utopias hardly have the meat on their bones to sustain a people in grave times.
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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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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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We do not, after all, simply have experience we are entrusted with it. We must do something--make something--with it. A story, we sense is the only possible habitation for the burden of our witnessing.
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Looking repeatedly into the past, you do not necessarily become fascinated with your own life, but rather with the phenomenon of memory.
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Fundamentally, [prayer] is a position, a placement of oneself.
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We only store in memory images of value. To write about one's life is to live it twice, and the second time is both spiritual and historical.
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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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Silence was the first prayer I learned to trust.
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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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Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.
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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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poetry is the sung voice of accurate perception.
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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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I could tell you stories-if only stories could tell what I have in me to tell.
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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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In memory each of us is an artist: each of us creates.
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Planes are my foxhole. I'm always on my knees in them.
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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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