Erica Jong Quotes
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If we are all made of God, it is our friends who remind us. We pass the gift of God to them. They pass it back to us when we need it most.
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We find our calling or it finds us, and it's a sin against the fates not to use your talent when you have it.
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It was easy enough to kill yourself in a fit of despair. It was easy enough to play the martyr. It was harder to do nothing. To endure your life. To wait.
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Art is always an energy exchange.
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The Passion that one Soul hath for God cannot be judged by another.
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Sex doesn't disappear, it just changes forms.
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What was the point of spending your life with someone you were always looking for ways to decieve?
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I am old enough to know that laughter, not anger, is the true revelation.
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I don't think that sex necessarily produces intimacy.
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Whenever I go anywhere but Italy for a vacation, I always feel vaguely disappointed, as if I have made a mistake.
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Solitude is un-American.
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They keep saying the right person will come along. I think mine got hit by a truck.
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People in the land of LaLa look like expensive wax fruit. And they work hard to achieve that look.
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If we can be sufficient unto ourselves, we need fear no entangling webs.
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I don't necessarily read everything. I read what I need to read to inspire the book I'm trying to finish.
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Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.
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A man assumes that a woman's refusal is just part of a game. Or, at any rate, a lot of men assume that. When a man says no, it's no. When a woman says no, it's yes, or at least maybe. There is even a joke to that effect. And little by little, women begin to believe in this view of themselves.
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Venice is ever the fragile labyrinth at the edge of the sea and it reminds us how brief and perilous the journeys of our lives are; perhaps that is why we love it so. City of plagues and brief liaisons, city of lingering deaths and incendiary loves, city of chimeras, nightmares, pigeons, bells. You are the only city in the world whose dialect has a word for the shimmer of canal water reflected on the ceiling of a room.
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How could one create life with someone who represented death?
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Writing has often been accompanied by terror, silences, and then wild bursts of private laughter that suddenly make all the dread seem worthwhile.