About Eudora Welty: Eudora Alice Welty is open to the public as a house museum.
I think of the chimp, the one with the talking hands. In the course of the experiment, that chimp had a baby. Imagine how her trainers must have thrilled when the mother, without prompting, began to sign her newborn. Baby, drink milk. Baby, play ball...
The worst of it is over now, and I can't say that I am glad. Lose that sense of loss—you have gone and lost something else. But the body moves toward health. The mind, too, in steps. One step at a time. Ask a mother who has just lost a child, How m...
He did not like illness, he distrusted it, as he distrusted the road without signposts. ("Death Of A Traveling Salesman")
Ashamed, shrugging a little, and then shivering, he took his bags and went out. The cold of the air seemed to lift him bodily. The moon was in the sky. On the slope he began to run, he could not help it. Just as he reached the road, where his car see...
I had my own bed. I slept in it alone, except for those times when we needed—not sex—but sex was how we got there.
I believe that 99 percent of what anyone does can effectively be postponed.
Never to have to think of yourself as white is a luxory that makes you deeply stupid.
He could not wait to get rid of them so he could enjoy remembering them.
And it was so still. The silence of the fields seemed to enter and move familiarly through the house. The wind used the open hall. He felt that he was in a mysterious, quiet, cool danger. It was necessary to do what?...to talk. ("Death Of A Traveling...
The thing that seemed like silence must have been the endless cry of all the crickets and locusts in the world, rising and falling. ("The Wide Net")
It was late afternoon. This time tomorrow he would be somewhere on a good graveled road, driving his car past things that happened to people, quicker than their happening. ("Death of a Traveling Salesman")
Through travel I first became aware of the outside world; it was through travel that I found my own introspective way into becoming a part of it.
It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I wa...
Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit ...
She read Dickens in the same spirit she would have eloped with him.
The fantasies of dying could be no stranger than the fantasies of living. Survival is perhaps the strangest fantasy of them all.
I'm a great reader that never has time to read.
He loved happiness like I love tea.
Indeed, learning to write may be part of learning to read. For all I know, writing comes out of a superior devotion to reading.
Great fiction shows us not how to conduct our behavior but how to feel. Eventually, it may show us how to face our feelings and face our actions and to have new inklings about what they mean. A good novel of any year can initiate us into our own new ...
