“...alone in this city, alone on this sea. The days were strewn about him, he was a drunkard of days. He had achieved nothing. He had his life--it was not worth much--not like a life that, though ended, had truly… — James Salter Copy Share Image
“He had his life—it was not worth much—not like a life that, though ended, had truly been something. If I had had courage, he thought, if I had had faith. We preserve ourselves as if that were important, and always… — James Salter Copy Share Image
It seems to me that literature is giving way a little bit to the immediacy of other diversions, other forms of entertainment. What will… — James Salter Copy Share Image
Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they're ready to leave — James Salter Copy Share Image
I write in longhand. I am accustomed to that proximity, that feel of writing. Then I sit down and type. — James Salter Copy Share Image
A writer writes a book. People read it. You don't know what they're reading, really. You read a review and think, "That is so… — James Salter Copy Share Image
“Strauss’s, for instance, which begins in the heavens. The artist doesn’t ascend to glory, he appears in it, he already has it and the… — James Salter Copy Share Image
Normally, what you’re envious of is a book, not a writer: standards, ideas, levels … almost nonexistent things. — James Salter Copy Share Image
Sometimes I write with a particular person in mind. I think it's fair to say that I write for a perceptive reader. You have… — James Salter Copy Share Image
Lots of scripts are written and not made, even scripts that people want to make. — James Salter Copy Share Image
I'd given up everything to be a writer, and if I didn't then go on to do that - to write - then I… — James Salter Copy Share Image
“One should not believe too easily in a life which can easily vanish.” — James Salter Copy Share Image
“Life is separated by scars, like the rings in the inside of a tree.” — James Salter Copy Share Image
“Dean is still asleep. His clothes are strewn about. The shutters are closed. He never dreams. He’s like a dead musician, like a spent… — James Salter Copy Share Image
There came a time when I felt I was not going to be satisfied with life unless I could write. — James Salter Copy Share Image
