Quotes About Expression

But I ain't likely to write you no poem, if you follow me. Your AI, it just might. But it ain't no way human.

he appeared not at all auctorial in the insufferable sense of the word (I think of writers who pose with their dogs, or hold questionable medical devices, or mousse their hair until its specific gravity resembles that of pound cake).

beneath her snaky black thundercloud of anti-coiffure.

Trabajar con las dos manos es una expresión que usamos, más o menos quiere decir que trabajan en los dos extremos. Blanco y negro, ¿me entiendes?

But I suppose that is the way of an artiste, no? You needed this world built for you, this beach, this place. To die.

Coretti didn't know how to dress. Clothing was a language and Coretti a kind of sartorial stutterer, unable to make the kind of basic coherent fashion statement that would put strangers at their ease. His ex-wife told him he dressed like a Martian; that he didn't look as though he belonged anywhere in the city. He hadn't liked her saying that, because it was true.

subgenres are products of the writers' urgent necessity to avoid tangling with a realistic

Shoats had pushed his chair back from the table to allow himself room for the guitar, between the table edge and his belly, and was tuning it. He wore that hearing-secret-harmonies expression people wore when they tuned guitars.

The concrete walls were overlaid with graffiti, years of them twisting into a single metascrawl of rage and frustration.

You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.

few stray bits of Lego

Language fits over experience like a straight jacket.

Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness.

Art is partly communication, but only partly. The rest is discovery.

The air was heavy with unspoken knowledge. Sam twisted and the obscene word shot out of him. --dance? Memory of the dance that none of them had attended shook all four boys convulsively.

I do think that art that doesn't communicate is useless.

The crucifixion should never be depicted. It is a horror to be veiled.

If you accept life dully, you can go through it moving not among things but among words.

The writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he's written it.

Other people could stand up and speak to an assembly, apparently, without that dreadful feeling of the pressure of personality; could say what they would as though they were speaking to only one person.

Words may, through the devotion, the skill, the passion, and the luck of writers prove to be the most powerful thing in the world.

He was so delighted he stood on his head. And this is one of the ways small boys show they're delighted, they stand on their head and waggle their feet in the air.

Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.

I love you. Okay? Want it louder? I LOVE YOU. Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I.