You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music. — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack but there was no real scent, only the memory of… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write. — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“A kind of joyous hysteria moved into the room, everything flying before the wind, vehicles outside getting dented to hell, the crowd sweaty and… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“.. that old, cold time on the mountain when they owned the world and nothing seemed wrong ..” — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“The mountain pine beetle is a tiny creature that chews through a lodgepole’s bark, gouges out a hollow in the wood and lays its… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“It was as if his eye were an ear and a crackle went through it each time he shot a look at the accordion.… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“On the stairs an image came to him. Was love then like a bag of assorted sweets passed around from which one might choose… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“The only cities were of ice, bergs with cores of beryl, blue gems within white gems, that some said gave off an odor of… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“They say that doing ten sums a day prevents you from becoming senile. But by that argument bankers should be geniuses. That's not right.… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“You stand there, braced. Cloud shadows race over the buff rock stacks as a projected film, casting a queasy, mottled ground rash. The air… — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
“Thirty-six years old and this was the first time anybody ever said he'd done it right. Fog against the window like milk.” — Annie Proulx Copy Share Image
