Writing a novel is not merely going on a shopping expedition across the border to an unreal land: it is hours and years spent in the factories, the streets, the cathedrals of the imagination. — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
I must go down to the seas again to find where I buried the hatchet with Yesterday. — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
“So I went up north to a land of palm trees and mangroves like malignant growths in the mud-filled throats of the bays, and… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
“A certain pleasure was added to Grace’s relief at establishing herself as a migratory bird. She found that she understood the characters in her… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
“I have to cry out here that language is all we have for the delicacy and truth of telling, that words are the sole… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
The only certainty about writing and trying to be a writer is that it has to be done, not dreamed of or planned and… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
Listening to her, one experienced a deep uneasiness as of having avoided an urgent responsibility, like someone who, walking at night along the banks… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
People dread silence because it is transparent; like clear water, which reveals every obstacle—the used, the dead, the drowned, silence reveals the cast-off words… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
So we went to bed, assaulted by sleep that fumed at us from medicine glasses, or was wielded from small sweet-coated tablets -- dainty… — Janet Frame Copy Share Image
