Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once. — 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
