Annie Proulx
Annie Proulx
Edna Ann Proulxis an American journalist and author. She has written most frequently as Annie Proulx but has also used the names E. Annie Proulx and E.A. Proulx...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth22 August 1935
CountryUnited States of America
silence unfolding wounded
Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.
fall coins may
A spinning coin, still balanced on its rim, may fall in either direction.
hands eggs giving
I didn't have a chance to buy you anything," she said, then held both closed hands toward him. Uncurled her fingers. In each cupped palm a brown egg. He took them. They were cold. He thought it a tender, wonderful thing to do. She had given him something, the eggs, after all, only a symbol, but they had come from her hands as a gift. To him. It didn't matter that he'd bought them himself at the supermarket the day before. He imagined she understood him, that she had to love him to know that it was the outstreched hands, the giving, that mattered.
party games ordinary
Ordinary parties, he thought, were subtle games of sexual and social badminton...
heart men maids
... there are four women in every man’s heart. The Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stouthearted Woman, the Tall and Quiet Woman.
I would rather be dead than not read
reading years wide
Develop craftsmanship through years of wide reading.
teacher reading writing
Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.
rage
What we fear we often rage against.
adversity thinking water
And I think that's important, to know how the water's gone over the dam before you start to describe it. It helps to have been over the dam yourself.
rain hair rocks
Walking on the land or digging in the fine soil I am intensely aware that time quivers slightly, changes occurring in imperceptible and minute ways, accumulating so subtly that they seem not to exist. Yet the tiny shifts in everything--cell replication, the rain of dust motes, lengthening hair, wind-pushed rocks--press inexorably on and on.
growing-up differences strange
We're all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differences as we grow up.
life children acceptance
We face up to awful things because we can't go around them, or forget them. The sooner you say 'Yes, it happened, and there's nothing I can do about it,' the sooner you can get on with your own life. You've got children to bring up. So you've got to get over it. What we have to get over, somehow we do. Even the worst things.
stupid writing self
What I find to be very bad advice is the snappy little sentence, 'Write what you know.' It is the most tiresome and stupid advice that could possibly be given. If we write simply about what we know we never grow. We don't develop any facility for languages, or an interest in others, or a desire to travel and explore and face experience head-on. We just coil tighter and tighter into our boring little selves. What one should write about is what interests one.