By the end, you should be inside your character, actually operating from within somebody else, and knowing him pretty well, as that person knows himself or herself. You're sort of a predator, an invader of people. — 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
