The long horizon, the lunging, clotted sea like a swinging…

Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.

— Annie Proulx

“A kind of joyous hysteria moved into the room, everything flying before the wind, vehicles outside getting dented to hell, the crowd sweaty and…

— Annie Proulx

“By January it had always been winter.”

— Annie Proulx

“.. that old, cold time on the mountain when they owned the world and nothing seemed wrong ..”

— Annie Proulx

“The mountain pine beetle is a tiny creature that chews through a lodgepole’s bark, gouges out a hollow in the wood and lays its…

— Annie Proulx

“It was as if his eye were an ear and a crackle went through it each time he shot a look at the accordion.…

— Annie Proulx

“On the stairs an image came to him. Was love then like a bag of assorted sweets passed around from which one might choose…

— Annie Proulx

“The only cities were of ice, bergs with cores of beryl, blue gems within white gems, that some said gave off an odor of…

— Annie Proulx

“They say that doing ten sums a day prevents you from becoming senile. But by that argument bankers should be geniuses. That's not right.…

— Annie Proulx

It's easier to die if others around you are dying.

— Annie Proulx

“You stand there, braced. Cloud shadows race over the buff rock stacks as a projected film, casting a queasy, mottled ground rash. The air…

— Annie Proulx

“Thirty-six years old and this was the first time anybody ever said he'd done it right. Fog against the window like milk.”

— Annie Proulx

“There was a month of fiery happiness. Then six kinked years of suffering.”

— Annie Proulx

It is my feeling that a story is not finished until it is read, and that the reader finishes it through his or her…

— Annie Proulx

“One of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.”

— Annie Proulx