Carol Shields Quotes
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This is why I read novels: so I can escape my own unrelenting monologue.
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Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.
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There are chapters in every life which are seldom read and certainly not aloud.
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I couldn't have been a novelist without being a mother. It gives you a unique witness point of the growth of a personality. It was a kind of biological component for me that had to come first. My children gave this other window on the world.
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It's hard work being a person, you have to do it every single day.
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These are frightening times...when she feels herself annointed by loneliness.
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Eventually, everything gets stuck between a pair of parentheses or buried in the bottom of a trunk.
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A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction.
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In a long and healthy life, which is what most of us have, there is plenty of time.
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nothing she did or said was quite what she meant but still her life could be called a monument shaped in a slant of available light and set to the movement of possible music
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In one day I had altered my life; my life, therefore, was alterable. This simple axiom did not call out for exegesis; no, it entered my bloodstream directly, as powerful as heroin. I could feel it pump and surge, the way it brightened my veins to a kind of glass. I had wakened that morning to narrowness and predestination and now I was falling asleep in the storm of my own free will.
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We are too kind, too willing--too unwilling too--reaching out blindly with a grasping hand but not knowing how to ask for what we don't even know we want.
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Our friendship is made up of these brief frenzied exchanges, but the quality of our conversation, for all its feverish outpouring, is genuine.
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Why should men be allowed to strut under the privilege of their life adventures, wearing them like a breast full of medals, while women went all gray and silent beneath the weight of theirs?
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The larger loneliness of our lives evolves from our unwillingness to spend ourselves, stir ourselves. We are always damping down our inner weather, permitting ourselves the comforts of postponement, of rehearsals
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It's the arrangement of events which makes the stories. It's throwing away, compressing, underlining. Hindsight can give structure to anything, but you have to be able to see it. Breathing, waking and sleeping: our lives are steamed and shaped into stories. Knowing that is what keeps me from going insane, and though I don't like to admit it, sometimes it's the only thing.
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The silence is perfect, and yet a torment.
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Go for long walks, indulge in hot baths, Question your assumptions, be kind to yourself, live for the moment, loosen up, scream, curse the world, count your blessings, Just let go, Just be.
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It occurs to her that she should record this flash of insight in her journal - otherwise she is sure to forget, for she is someone who is always learning and forgetting and obliged to learn again.
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The recounting of a life is a cheat...even our own stories are obscenely distorted.
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Anyone's childhood can be an act of disablement if rehearsed and replayed and squinted at in a certain light. . .
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Write the book you want to read, the one you cannot find.
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He dares not concern himself with the future for fear of disturbing the present.
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And yet, within her anxiety, secured there like a gemstone, she carries the cool and curious power of occasionally being able to see the world vividly. Clarity bursts upon her a spray of little stars. She understands this, and thinks of it as one of the tricks of consciousness; there is something almost luxurious about it.. The narrative maze opens and permits her to pass through. She may be crowded out of her own life - she knows this for a fact and has always know it - but she possesses, as a compensatory gift, the startling ability to draft alternative versions.
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The scolding voice is her own, so abrasive and quick, yet so powerless to move her.
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So this is where the years of maturity deliver us - to this needy, selfish, unwieldy wish to be somebody else's first and primal other.
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Open a book this minute and start reading. Don’t move until you’ve reached page fifty. Until you’ve buried your thoughts in print. Cover yourself with words. Wash yourself away. Dissolve.
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Words are our life. We are human because we use language. So I think we are less human when we use less language.
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I'm concerned about the unknowability of other people.
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Bookish people, who are often maladroit people, persist in thinking they can master any subtlety so long as it's been shaped into acceptable expository prose.
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