It's quiet for a while. I'm watching the traffic outside buzzing ominously up 1031 Galloway thinking about how different things were back in college, how casual and simple life was. All i did was sleep all day, party all night, get laid and walk arou...
Time for the likeliest story since Mary told Joseph it was God’s.
The only way to live several lives in one lifespan is to write stories.
911 emergency, how can I help you?” answered a middle aged woman. “Yeah, I'd like to report a suicide please.” “A suicide…?” “Yes you heard right, suicide.” “Okay sir, may I ask who's committing the suicide?” “Me” I replied.
My parents would always trace the sign of the cross on our foreheads before they kissed us goodnight.
I think it is quite remarkable actually that Pope Benedict has a sense of the variety of ways in which it is possible to be a Catholic. I think he is more comfortable with a plurality of expressions of Catholicism in different rites, traditions than ...
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.
All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter. For me style is matter.
No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.
Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.
I have often noticed that after I had bestowed on the characters of my novels some treasured item of my past, it would pine away in the artificial world where I had so abruptly placed it.
The more gifted and talkative one's characters are, the greater the chances of their resembling the author in tone or tint of mind.
We made no inquiries about India or about the families people had left behind. When our ways of thinking had changed, and we wished to know, it was too late. I know nothing of the people on my father's side; I know only that some of them came from Ne...
In England I am not English, in India I am not Indian. I am chained to the 1,000 square miles that is Trinidad; but I will evade that fate yet.
My grief is that the publishing world, the book writing world is an extraordinary shoddy, dirty, dingy world.
I could meet dreadful people and end up seeing the world through their eyes, seeing their frailties, their needs.
The ancillary aspect of every British city now is the council estate.
As a child I knew almost nothing, nothing beyond what I had picked up in my grandmother's house. All children, I suppose, come into the world like that, not knowing who they are.
