Cynthia Ozick (born April 17, 1928) is an American short story writer, novelist, and essayist.[1] (wikipedia)
There was a period... when I used to say, with as much ferocity as I could muster, 'I hate Henry James, and I wish he was dead.' Influence is perdition.
Profound subject matter can be encompassed in small space - for proof, look at any sonnet by Shakespeare!
Early in the 1990s, I flew alone in a dandelion-yellow, single-engine, 180-horsepower Piper Cherokee from Westchester County Airport in New York westward to the Rocky Mountains, landing and refuelling a good many times in middle-sized cities and towns along the way.
Time at length becomes justice.
Nothing is so awesomely unfamiliar as the familiar that discloses itself at the end of a journey. Nothing shakes the heart so much as meeting-far, far away-what you last met at home.
To desire to be what one can be is purpose in life. There are no exterior forces. There are only interior forces. Who squanders talent praises death.
a. Critics: people who make monuments out of books. b. Biographers: people who make books out of monuments. c. Poets: people who raze monuments. d. Publishers: people who sell rubble. e. Readers: people who buy it.
Godlessness invariably produces vulgarity. Civilization is the product of belief.
Whoever mourns the dead mourns himself.
Death persecutes before it executes.