In a rough way the short story writer is to the novelist as a cabinetmaker is to a house carpenter. — 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 the smells of aftershave, manure, clothes dried on the line, your money’s worth of perfume, smoke, booze; the music subdued by the shout and babble through the bass hammer could be felt through the soles of… — Annie Proulx Copy Share
“.. 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 eggs. The larvae hatch hungry and feed on the cambium layer, a tree’s most vital part, the annual layer of cells that makes up a growth ring. To prevent drowning in the tree’s sap, the beetle… — Annie Proulx Copy Share
“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 more than once? Some might sting the tongue, some invoke night perfume. Some had centers as bitter as gall, some blended honey and poison, some were quickly swallowed. And among the common bull's-eyes and peppermints a… — Annie Proulx Copy Share
“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 hisses and it is no local breeze but the great harsh sweep of wind from the turning of the earth. The wild country--indigo jags of mountain, grassy plain everlasting, tumbled stones like fallen cities, the flaring… — Annie Proulx Copy Share
“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
