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Love, even of the most ardent and soul-destroying kind, is never caught by the lens of the camera.

William Maxwell

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William Maxwell
Camera
Cameras
Caught
Soul
Even
Lens
Kind
Ardent
Never
Lenses
Love
Destroying

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If I had had to write only about imaginary people, I would have had to close up my typewriter. I wrote about my life in less and less disguise as I grew older, and finally with no disguise - except the disguise we create for ourselves, which is self-deception.
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My father represented authority, which meant—to me—that he could not also represent understanding.
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It's deprivation that makes people writers, if they have it in them to be a writer.
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The reason life is so strange is that so often people have no choice.
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I am the cat that walks alone.
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The nail doesn't choose the time or the circumstances in which it is drawn to the magnet
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A gentleman doesn't have one set of manners for the house of a poor man and another for the house of someone with an income incomparable to his own.
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Your reader is at least as bright as you are
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The view after seventy is breathtaking. What is lacking is someone, anyone, of the older generation to whom you can turn when you want to satisfy your curiosity about some detail of the landscape of the past. There is no longer any older generation. You have become it, while your mind was mostly on other matters
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What we refer to confidently as memory is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling.
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Who knows what oversensitive is, considering all there is to be sensitive to.
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I had inadvertently walked through a door that I shouldn’t have gone through and couldn’t get back to the place I hadn’t meant to leave.
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A writer is a reader who is moved to emulation.
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In talking about the past, we lie with every breath we draw.
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It was lovely when you found students who responded to things you were enthusiastic about.
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Satin and lace and brown velvet and the faint odor of violets. That was all which was left to him of his love.
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If you turn the imagination loose like a hunting dog, it will often return with the bird in its mouth.
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Sometimes she goes out to work as a practical nurse, and comes home and sits by the kitchen table soaking her feet in a pan of hot water and Epsom salts. When she gets into bed and the springs creak under her weight, she groans with the pleasure of lying stretched out on an object that understands her so well.
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