Anthony Marra Quotes
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The short story that eventually grew into Constellation was the first fiction set in Russia that I'd ever written, and that was right around the time I was giving up on a doomed, never-to-be-seen first novel. While I saw it could be something bigger, in hindsight fortuitous timing was as responsible as anything.
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You are a coward,' she said, and with that one word wrote a denunciation, a biography, and a prophecy.
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Anytime I can get either of them really laughing, I immediately pull out a pad of paper write the joke down, regardless of where we are or what we're doing. I must be absolutely insufferable.
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We tend to associate humor with lightheartedness, but really, it's a rhetorical mode than can be applied to any subject. It was through researching Chechnya that I came to understand this.
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There is something miraculous in the way the years wash away your evidence, first you, then your friends and family, then the descendants who remember your face, until you aren’t even a memory, you’re only carbon, no greater than your atoms, and time will divide them as well.
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In my own work, humor is necessary, for the reasons stated above, but also because forbidding your characters silliness, absurdity, irony, and vulgarity forbids them aspects of the human experience every bit as universal as sorrow.
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But there had to be a quota. An upper limit to the number of miracles one is privileged to in a lifetime. How many times can a beloved reappear?
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Her father was the face of her morning and night, he was everything, so saturating Havaa’s world that she could no more describe him than she could the air.
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Invader and invaded held on to their fistfuls of earth, but in the end, the earth outlived the hands that held it.
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Work isn't meaningful just because you spend your life doing it.
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Inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce, and that is who we are.
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Sleep just a while longer, that's it, where else can you go where you neither suffer nor cause suffering.
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It's stupid. There are maps to show you how to get to the place where you want to be but no maps that show you how to get to the time when you want to be.
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Life: a constellation of vital phenomena—organization, irritability, movement, growth, reproduction, adaptation.
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What parts had she discarded for the sake of her sanity? What had she cut from herself? Had he stared into her pupils he would have emerged, bewildered and blinking, on the far side of the earth. Was he awed by her? Absolutely. Did he respect her? Unequivocally. Want to be anything like her? No, never, not at all.
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My work often begins as little internal dares, wondering if I can pull something off. So I spent a few years drawing these stories together, trying to build a Pangea of what began as separate continents.
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Nothing, she now knew, could be defined in exclusion, and every bug, pencil, and grass blade was a dictionary in itself, requiring the definitions of all things to fulfill its own.
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War is unnatural, it causes people to act unnaturally.
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She wanted to hold foreign syllables like mints on her tongue until they dissolved into fluency.
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Happiness came in moments of unpredictable loveliness.
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How often is immense sadness mistaken for courage?
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A good mixtape didn't just gather together a bunch of love songs, but instead created an emotional narrative specific to your affection. The stories in most of my favorite collections are collected more like songs on a mixtape than, say, collected like spare change. By which I mean they are in conversation with each other and work to become larger than their parts.
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She praised his book and he embraced her from gratitude rather than lust, but she didn't let go. Neither did he. She kissed his cheek, his earlobe. For months they'd run their fingers around the hem of their affection without once acknowledging the fabric. The circumference of the world tightened to what their arms encompassed. She sat on the desk, between the columns of read and unread manuscript, and pulled him toward her by his index fingers.
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You are mine. I recognize you. We twist our souls around each other's miseries. It is that which makes us family.
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We wear clothes, and speak, and create civilizations, and believe we are more than wolves. But inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce and that is who we are.
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She wouldn't climb out of the bed for her sister, but she had climbed into a crater. She wouldn't cross a room, but she had crossed a continent.
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She was fluent in four languages and yet her fists against the rusted hood were the fullest articulation of her defeat.
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Sometimes it bursts from your imagination fully formed, sometimes you absorb from nonfiction, sometimes you're able to imprint your own autobiographical experiences on a world you never yourself were a part of. A decent number of the one-liners in the title story originally came up in conversations with my girlfriend or my neighbor.
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Perhaps our deepest love is already inscribed within us, so its object doesn't create a new word but instead allows us to read the one written.
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For their entire lives, even before they met you, your mother and father held their love for you inside their hearts like an acorn holds an oak tree.
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