I was captivated by Sherrie Flick's meticulous and intelligent study of Margaret and Vivette, and the men they share. Reconsidering Happiness is a courageously intimate novel about the young women of modern America, their friendships, their betrayals, and their anxious… — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
“On nights like this, when there is anxiety about, there is a glut of lovemaking. Then the moon is our dance master. He has… — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
Retiring from writing is not to retire from life, but retiring from writing is to avoid the inevitable bitterness which a writing career is… — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
“There's not a season set aside for pondering and reveries. It will not les us hesitate or rest; it does not wish us to stand back and comment on its comeliness or devise a song for it. It has no time to listen to our song. It only asks us not to tire in our hard work. It wants to… — Jim Crace Copy Share
“I am excused, I think, for wondering if I am the only one alive this afternoon with no other living soul who wants to… — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
Try pitching a story of happiness to your editors and their toes are going to curl up. — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
“Sometimes in matters of the heart words are not required. Are ill advised, in fact.” — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
To ask a novelist to talk about his novels is like asking somebody to cook about their dancing. — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
“I think I'd like her to turn round. I want to see her face a second time. That first time she was hardly visible. She was little more than dark on dark, a body shape, as I remember it. If only she would spin round on her heels and the moonlight would oblige, I could persuade myself she's real and… — Jim Crace Copy Share
“And it seems I ought to scatter too. Perhaps at once. It's always better to turn your back on the gale than press your… — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
“Any hawk looking down on the orchard's cloistered square, hoping for the titbit of a beetle or a mouse, would see a patterned canopy of trees, line on line, the orchard's melancholy solitude, the jewellery of leaves. It would see the backs of horses, the russet, apple-dotted grass, the saltire of two crossing paths worn smooth by centuries of feet,… — Jim Crace Copy Share
There is no remedy for death--or birth--except to hug the spaces in between. Live loud. Live wide. Live tall. — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
Secrets are like pregnancies hereabouts. You can hide them for a while but then they will start screaming. — Jim Crace Copy Share Image
