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The need to write comes from the need to make sense of one's life and discover one's usefulness.
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I'm wicked, as you say, and I'm rude and I'm boorish and I discovered, after marrying Mr Scaddon, that I could be all these things and worse and that there would still be plenty of people to lick my boots.
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When I remember my family, I always remember their backs. They were always indignantly leaving places.
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He had that spooky bass voice meant to announce that he had entered the kingdom of manhood, but Rosalie knew that he was still outside the gates.
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At my back I hear the word-'homosexual'-and it seems to split my world in two.... It is ignorance, our ignorance of one another, that creates this terrifying erotic chaos. Information, a crumb of information, seems to light the world.
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Literature has been the salvation of the damned, literature has inspired and guided lovers, routed despair and can perhaps in this case save the world.
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What I am going to write is the last of what I have to say. I will say that literature is the only consciousness we possess and that its role as consciousness must inform us of our ability to comprehend the hideous danger of nuclear power.
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One would never have guessed that the world had such a capacity for genuine grief. The most we can do is exploit our memories of his excellence.
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When the beginnings of self-destruction enter the heart it seems no bigger than a grain of sand.
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People look for morals in fiction because there has always been a confusion between fiction and philosophy.
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I sometimes go back to walk through the ghostly remains of Sutton Place where the rude, new buildings stand squarely in one another’s river views.
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The organizations of men, like men themselves, seem subject to deafness, nearsightedness, lameness, and involuntary cruelty. We seem tragically unable to help one another, to understand one another.