As the surface of the seashore rocks were pitted by by the waves and gathered limpets that further disguised what lay beneath, so time made truth of what appeared to be. The days that passed, in becoming weeks, still did… — William Trevor Copy Share Image
“She is embarrassed to be alive and no one on earth can fully console her.” — William Trevor Copy Share
People like me write because otherwise we are pretty inarticulate. Our articulation is our writing. — William Trevor Copy Share
“Miss Clerricot blushes most charmingly and raises a hand to cover a portion of her countenance. It is a shame, this ill-feeling that exists… — William Trevor Copy Share
“I have never believed in the axiom that a writer should first and foremost write about what he knows. I think it’s a piece… — William Trevor Copy Share
“You can’t apply academic rules to art of any kind. As soon as you begin to have rules, you begin to say, “Well, it… — William Trevor Copy Share
“He was an old hand at the Camp now, his hollow countenance and the intensity of his averted gaze familiar to all who came… — William Trevor Copy Share
“It should be an explosion of truth. Its strength lies in what it leaves out just as much as what it puts in, if… — William Trevor Copy Share
“Would he ever, he wondered, escape from people who banged on the doors he locked to demand his egress?” — William Trevor Copy Share
“Studdy was thinking that the creature was an animal; he was saying to himself that it was surely in error that she had become… — William Trevor Copy Share
“The past has no belongings. The past does not obligingly absorb what is not wanted.” — William Trevor Copy Share
I get melancholy if I don't [write]. I need the company of people who don't exist. — William Trevor Copy Share
The capacity you're thinking of is imagination; without it there can be no understanding, indeed no fiction. — William Trevor Copy Share
“He was new to London in those days, and he had not liked it. He had not cared for the intensity of the traffic,… — William Trevor Copy Share
“Memory in its ordinary way summoned harvested fields, and haycocks and autumn hedges, the first of the fuchsia, the last of the wild sweetpea.… — William Trevor Copy Share
