literature

But now books and men had gone their separate ways. Who has the patience for a book? Only a book.

Estragon: You see, you feel worse when I'm with you. I feel better alone, too.Vladmir: Then why do you always come crawling back?Estragon: I don't know.

We are destroying all esthetic standards in the name of social justice.

A story is a wedding in which we listeners are the groom watching the bride coming up the aisle. It is together, in an act of imaginary consummation, that the story is born. This act wholly involves us, as any marriage would, and just as no marriage is exactly the same as another, so each of us interprets a story differently, feels for it differently.

In the best day.

A cardinal principle of good fiction [is]: the theme and the plot of a novel must be integrated__s thoroughly integrated as mind and body or thought and action in a rational view of man.

To tell the truth, my dear count, I must own that of all nauseating human emanations, literature is one of those which disgust me most. I can see nothing in it but compromise and flattery. And I go so far as to doubt whether it can be anything else.

I wished, first of all, to buy my way into people's good graces with my book so that, in subsequent personal contact, I would find the ground already prepared, and, I reasoned, if I succeeded in implanting in their soules a favorable image of me, this image would in turn shape me; and so, willy-nilly, I would become mature.

They sat a few meters apart, speaking very rarely, and there was really only the noise of turning pages (_) Where Hans Hubermann and Erik Vandenburg were ultimately united by music, Max and Liesel were held together by the quiet gathering of words."Hi, Max.""Hi, Liesel."They would sit and read.

An author who does not support his or her characters does not deserve the support of readers. EVER!

Literature that awakens and inflames feelings is the food of hearts.

In the Dictionary 'lumpy jaw' comes just before 'lunacy,' but in life there are no such clues. Suddenly, for no reason, you might start to dribble from the mouth, to howl peevishly at the moon. You might start quoting your mother, out loud and with conviction. You might lose your friends to the most uninspired of deaths. You might one day wake up and find yourself teaching at a community college; there will have been nothing to warn you. You might say things to your students like, There is only one valid theme in literature: Life will disappoint you.

In literature, the reader standing at the threshold of the end of a book harbors no illusion that the end has not come__e or she can see where it finishes, the abyss the other side of the last chunk of text. Which means that the writer is never in danger of ending too soon__r if he does the reader has been so forewarned. This is the advantage a book has over a film__t is the brain that marshals forward the text and controls the precise moment of conclusion of the book, as the density of the pages thins. A film can end without you if you__e fallen asleep or, because you can__ wait any longer to use the bathroom, slipped out of the darkness of the theatre salon, and missed it. There will never be a form more perfect than the book, which always moves at your pace, that sits waiting for you exactly where you__e left it and never goes on without you.

Be a good editor. The Universe needs more good editors, God knows.

6 criteria to upgrade literary production; Correct language, the power of the idea, the fluency in expressing, the connection between ideas and the depth of their meanings, the characters movements towards high convictions whether in the beginning or in the middle, and the ending must serves ideals and values and accomplishes victory to the human beings.

Even if a poem is beautiful and memorable, it__ not like an advertising jingle or propaganda, which attempt to convince and control. Poems seek to confuse, disabuse, enlarge understanding, and make people ask questions and think for themselves.

Love has always been the chief business of my life, the only thing I have thought__o, felt__upremely worth while, and I don__ pretend that this experience was not succeeded by others. But at that time, I was innocent, with the innocence of ignorance, I didn__ know what was happening to me. I was without consciousness, that is to say, more utterly absorbed than was ever possible again. For after that first time there was always part of me standing aside, comparing, analysing, objecting: __s this real? Is this sincere?_ All the world of my predecessors was there before me, taking, as it were, the bread out of my mouth. Was this stab in my heart, this rapture, really mine or had I merely read about it? For every feeling, every vicissitude of my passion, there would spring into my mind a quotation from the poets. Shakespeare or Donne or Heine had the exact phrase for it. Comforting, perhaps, but enraging too. Nothing ever seemed spontaneously my own. As the blood dripped from the wound, there was always part of me to watch with a smile and a sneer: __iterature! Mere literature! Nothing to make a fuss about!_ And then I would add, __ut so Mercutio jested as he died!

I liked to call myself a poet and had affected a habit of reading classical texts (in translation, of course _ I was a lazy student). I would ride the Greyhound for thirty-six hours down from the Midwest to Leechfield, then spend days dressed in black in the scalding heat of my mother__ front porch reading Homer (or Ovid or Virgil) and waiting for someone to ask me what I was reading. No one ever did. People asked me what I was drinking, how much I weighed, where I was living, and if I had married yet, but no one gave me a chance to deliver my lecture on Great Literature.