In my dreams I ate and I ate my dreams.
BERNARD MALAMUDHow can we be strangers if we both believe in God?
More Bernard Malamud Quotes
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… it’s possible to let love fly by like a cloud in a windy sky if one is too timid, or perhaps unable to believe he is entitled to good fortune.
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I fix what’s broken – except in the heart.
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Of course it would cost something, but he was an expert in cutting corners; and when there were no more corners left he would make circles rounder.
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We’re persecuted in the most civilized languages.
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Writers who can’t invent stories often substitute style for narrative. They remind me of the painter who couldn’t paint people, so he painted chairs.
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I love metaphor. It provides two loaves where there seems to be one. Sometimes it throws in a load of fish.
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One often feels helpless in the face of the confusion of these times, such a mass of apparently uncontrollable events and experiences to live through, attempt to understand.
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How can we be strangers if we both believe in God?
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One’s fantasy goes for a walk and returns with a bride.
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How one works, assuming he’s disciplined, doesn’t matter.
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Comedy, I imagine, is harder to do consistently than tragedy, but I like it spiced in the wine of sadness.
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I sometimes confuse myself with the little I know.
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A man is an island in the only sense that matters, not an easy way to be. We live in mystery, a cosmos of separate lonely bodies, men, insects, stars. It is all loneliness and men know it best.
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There is in the darkness a unity, if you will, that cannot be achieved in any other environment, a blending of self with what the self perceives, and exquisite mystical experience.
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A writer has to surprise himself to be worth reading.
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The past exudes legend: one can’t make pure clay of time’s mud.
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The idea is to get the pencil moving quickly.
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First drafts are for learning what your story is about.
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The purpose of freedom is to create it for others.
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We didn’t starve but nobody ate chicken unless we were sick or the chicken was.
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(Clothes) cannot change a man’s nature. He’s either kind or he isn’t, with or without clothes.
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Prufrock had measured out his life with measuring spoons; Dubin, in books resurrecting the lives of others.
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When I don’t feel hurt, I hope they bury me.
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The short story packs a self in a few pages predicating a lifetime
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As long as a man stays alive he can’t tell what chances will pop up next. But a dead man signs no checks.
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You write by sitting down and writing. There’s no particular time or place—you suit yourself, your nature.
BERNARD MALAMUD