“The ragged cat drags its belly across where the grass is short and the stones are sharp, under the lilacs that have no flowers. The flower smell is gone and the white falls off the trees. Seeds, Lark says, little… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share Image
Then he's inside you, and your body remembers, each time, every man, even if you try to forget. — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
I write line by line, by the sound and the weight and the music of the words. — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
I don't do much rewriting, because each paragraph is very carefully put together. — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
Literature can teach us how to live before we live, and how to die before we die. I believe that writing is practice for… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
Smoke veils the air like souls in drifting suspension, declining the war's insistence everyone move on. — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
If all stories are fiction, fiction can be true -- not in detail or fact, but in some transformed version of feeling. If there… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
“The ragged cat drags its belly across where the grass is short and the stones are sharp, under the lilacs that have no flowers.… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
That whole business of having two homes, and that divided loyalty bind that kids get into. I mean, my parents were divorced - though… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
I work via the high-tension-wire method, which is maybe going for long periods without writing while the tension builds up - when am I… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
I don't investigate things by writing about them, but let them build up inside of me. — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
If death is this brilliant slide, this high, fine music felt as pure vibration, this plunging float in wind and silence, it's not so… — Jayne Anne Phillips Copy Share
