Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself. — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
There were moments when she wasn't talking so much as fading into time, dropping back into some funnelled stretch of recent past. — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“We all know how the thing we secretly fear is not a secret at all but the open and eternal thing that predicts its… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live. — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
The novel is the dream release, the suspension of reality that history needs to escape its own brutal confinements. — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“As I listened I thought a featureless baggy man was striking me in slow motion with a well-polished stone.” — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“Murray said, 'I don't trust anybody's nostalgia but my own. Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It´s a settling of grievances between… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“She is beginning to think it is possible that all creation is a spurt of blank matter that chances to make an emerald planet… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“Those who have abandoned belief must still believe in us. They are sure that they are right not to believe but they know belief… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“The plane had lost power in all three engines, dropped from thirty-four thousand feet to twelve thousand feet. Something like four miles. When the… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“Grass: I live in a great steel tower that reflects the blazing sun. People catch fire just walking by. The more bodies that pile… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
“Marriage is something we make from available materials. In this sense it’s improvised, it’s almost offhand. Maybe this is why we know so little… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
The true life is not reducible to words spoken or written, not by anyone, ever. The true life takes place when we're alone, thinking,… — Don DeLillo Copy Share Image
