“Why was it that suicide kept rising up in Francis' mind? Wake up in the weeds outside Pittsburgh, half frozen over, too cold to move, flaked out 'n' stiffer than a chunk of old iron, and you say to yourself:… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
Everyone is interesting except the narrator in a first-person story. — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
Aspiring writers should read the entire canon of literature that precedes them, back to the Greeks, up to the current issue of The Paris… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
“In the years after the death of Petrus, Hillegond had refused all offers of marriage, certain that her knowledge of men, despite her uncountable… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
Without a sense of place the work is often reduced to a cry of voices in empty rooms, a literature of the self, at… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
“Love, is always insufficient, always a lie. Love, you are the clean shit of my soul. Stupid love, silly love. ” — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
We are only possible as what happened to us yesterday. We all change as well move — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
“He would not chance arrest by crawling into a corner of one of the old houses on Lower Broadway where the cops swept through… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
“But after awhile you stand up, wipe the frost out of your ear, go someplace to get warm, bum a nickel for coffee, and… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
“Why was it that suicide kept rising up in Francis' mind? Wake up in the weeds outside Pittsburgh, half frozen over, too cold to… — William Kennedy Copy Share Image
