Did the walls of the barn start to tremble With a glory they could not contain? Did anyone wake with the feeling Of peace that they could not explain? Oh the love must have been overwhelming As it warmed everyone… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
“We are saved not because we are worthy. We are saved because we are loved.” — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
There is a certain type of conversation one hears only when one is drunk and it is like a dream, full of humor and… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
A side benefit of the new and developing technologies is that soon we won't have to feel guilty about the suffering and denigration of… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
Good writing never soothes or comforts. It is no prescription, neither is it diversionary, although it can and should enchant while it explodes in… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
Writers end up writing stories-or rather, stories' shadows-and they're grateful if they can, but it is not enough. Nothing the writer can do is… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
You have never seen such animals as these who without a sound or a sign carry you off. You race with them across the long familiar ground that in that moment seems so glorious, so charged with beauty, strange. In their jaws you are carried so effortlessly, with such great care that you think it will never end, you long… — Joy Williams Copy Share
“Our treatment of animals and our attitude toward them are crucial not only to any pretensions we have to ethical behavior but the humankind's… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
“For centuries poets, some poets, have tried to give a voice to the animals, and readers, some readers, have felt empathy and sorrow. If animals did have voices, and they could speak with the tongues of angels--at the very least with the tongues of angels--they would be unable to save themselves from us. What good would language do? Their mysterious… — Joy Williams Copy Share
The writer trusts nothing she writes-it should be too reckless and alive for that, it should be beautiful and menacing and slightly out of… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
“Down in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator. There is nothing there but the prize steer of the county fair, rearranged in neat and mysterious packages. Daily, the cook pushes her hand into the cold. The result in uncertain. A gristly Ouija. It could be pot roast or brisket, eye of the round or sirloin tip. The steer has invaded… — Joy Williams Copy Share
Writers are like eremites or anchorites - natural-born eremites or anchorites - who seem puzzled as to why they went up the pole or… — Joy Williams Copy Share Image
