Don DeLillo
Don DeLillo
Donald Richard "Don" DeLillois an American novelist, playwright and essayist. His works have covered subjects as diverse as television, nuclear war, sports, the complexities of language, performance art, the Cold War, mathematics, the advent of the digital age, politics, economics, and global terrorism. Initially a well-regarded cult writer, the publication in 1985 of White Noise brought him widespread recognition. It was followed in 1988 by Libra, a bestseller. DeLillo has twice been a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction finalist), won the...
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth20 November 1936
CityBronx, NY
The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence.
The modern meaning of life's end-when does it end? How does it end? How should it end? What is the value of life? How do we measure it?
There's a connection between the advances that are made in technology and the sense of primitive fear people develop in response to it.
It is interesting ... how weapons reflect the soul of the maker.
Fame and secrecy are the high and low ends of the same fascination.
The future is always a wholeness, a sameness. We're all tall and happy there,' she said. 'This is why the future fails. It always fails. It can never be the cruel happy place we want to make it.
Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it.
Coming and going I am leaving. I will go and come. Leaving has come to me. We all, shall all, will all be left. Because I am here and where. And I will go or not or never. And I have seen what I will see. If I am where I will be. Because nothing comes between me.
Fear is self-awareness raised to a higher level.
There's never a dearth of reasons to shoot at the President.
It is possible to be homesick for a place even when you are there.
I was always younger than anyone around me. One day it began to change.
There is a balance, a kind of standoff between the time continuum and the human entity, our frail bundle of soma and psyche. We eventually succumb to time, it's true, but time depends on us. We carry it in our muscles and genes, pass it on to the next set of time-factoring creatures, our brown-eyed daughters and jug-eared sons, or how would the world keep going. Never mind the time theorists, the cesium devices that measure the life and death of the smallest silvery trillionth of a second.... We were the only crucial clocks, our minds and bodies, way stations for the distribution of time.
Dying was just an extended version of Ash Wednesday.