The worst thing: to give yourself away in exchange for not enough love.
Joyce Carol OatesI do what I want to do. It was a brash statement of(her)girlhood. Now she was an adult, the boast seemed quaint. For rarely do you know what you want. Even after you've done it you can't say clearly if that was what you'd wanted or just something that happened to you, like weather.
Joyce Carol OatesShe was one who wished to believe the human motives precede actions for she was (she had always been) a rational individual yet clearly there were times (was this one of those times?) when actions might precede motives and even render them useless.
Joyce Carol OatesWhat madness! Yet she would do it, if she could force herself. She'd become, she believed, a stronger person: a willful, resolute. Like the man who adored her, reckless.
Joyce Carol OatesCherie, keep walking. Shut your eyes. We are headed for the bridge. We are going to cross it.
Joyce Carol OatesStichwörter: cross bridge keep-walking
If food is poetry, is not poetry also food?
Joyce Carol OatesStichwörter: poetry on-writing
The novel is perhaps the highest art form because it so closely resembles life: it is about human relationships. It's technique, page by page, resembles our technique of living day by day--a way of relating.
Joyce Carol OatesYou never give such relationships a thought, To give a thought, to take a thought is a function of dissociation, distance. You can't exercise memory until you've removed yourself from memory's source.
Joyce Carol OatesStichwörter: fiction
Close up she saw that Molina's eyes were beautiful and dark thik eye lashed the way Lisette's mother tried to make hers with a mascara brush. The skin beneath Molina's eyes were soft and bruised looking and on her throat were tiny dark moles. It did not seem right that a woman like Molina, who you could tell was a mother-her body was a mother's body for sure, wide hips-could be a cop;it did not seem right that this person was carrying a gun, in a holster attached to leather belt, and that she could use it, if she wanted to.
Joyce Carol OatesLiterature, art, like civilization itself, are only accidents.
Joyce Carol OatesStichwörter: literature accidents
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