I don't know. I suppose I should have had a better idea of what I was letting myself in for. Still, the first murder? the farmer? seemed to have been so simple, a dropped stone falling to the lakebed with scarcely a ripple. The second one was also easy, at least at first, but I had no inkling how different it would be. What we took for a docile, ordinary weight (gentle plunk, swift rush to the bottom, dark waters closing over it without a trace) was in fact a depth charge, one that exploded quite without warning beneath the glassy surface, and the repercussions of which may not be entirely over, even now.
Donna TarttAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist, Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: December 23, 1963
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this is actualy a poemwe have been callednaiveas if it were a dirty word, whe have been calledinnocentas though with shameour cheeks should burnsowe visit withthe careful idolsof cynisismto learn to sneerand pant and walkso as not to feel the scalesof judgement rub wronglybut we saysome things mustremain simplesome things must remainuntouchedand purelest we all forgetthe legacy we begot usthe health of our originsthe poetry of our fundemental selves
Jewel
We have probably wondered in our many lonesome moments if there is one corner in this competitive, demanding world where it is safe to be relaxed, to expose ourselves to someone else, and to give unconditionally. It might be very small and hidden, but if this corner exists, it calls for a search through the complexities of our human relationships in order to find it.
Henri Nouwen
As a young child I wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. They lounged around Singapore and Rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. They sniffed cocaine in Mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of Tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle.
William S. Burroughs
Why honey, don't you want to get dressed?"My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon." I'm writing a novel," I said. "I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
Sylvia Plath
