Every story teaches me how to write it. Unfortunately, it doesn't teach me how to write the next one. — Eudora Welty Copy Share Image
“She (my mother) could still recite them (the poems) in full when she was lying helpless and nearly blind, in her bed, an old… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
Once you're into a story everything seems to apply-what you overhear on a city bus is exactly what your character would say on the… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“Two by two, I read library books as fast as I could go, rushing them home in the basket of my bicycle. From the… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“When somebody, no matter who, gives everything, it makes people feel ashamed for him.” — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“Daydreaming had started me on the way; but story writing, once I was truly in its grip, took me and shook me awake.” — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“All children in those small-town, unhurried days had a vast inner life going on in the movies. Children were allowed to go without chaperone… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“At the sting in her eyes, she remembered for him that there must be no tears in his.” — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“We do need to bring to our writing, over and over again, all the abundance we possess. To be able, to be ready, to… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“When one of us (children) caught measles or whooping cough and we were isolated in bad upstairs, we wrote notes to each other perhaps… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“She (my mother) stood always prepared in herself to challenge the world in our place. She did indeed tend to make the world look… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“For there is hate as well as love, she supposed, in the coming together and continuing of our lives.” — Eudora Welty Copy Share
“In children's art class we sat in a ring of kindergarten chairs and drew three daffodils that had just been picked out of the… — Eudora Welty Copy Share
People are mostly layers of violence and tenderness wrapped like bulbs, and it is difficult to say what makes them onions or hyacinths. — Eudora Welty Copy Share
