He was pale as salt. Although.

Alice McDermott

Alice McDermott

Profession: Author
Nationality: American

Some suggestions for you :

I am not a theologian or a historian, and I feel no call to become a defender of the faith, so in my case, the search for what remains valuable focuses on language itself: Catholic prayer, ritual, the naming of things.

Scribble out the world since it was not to your liking and make up a new one, something better.

My children have gone to Catholic school... Part of their whole education is talking about the inner life and looking at your life, even though you're only 15 or 16 - thinking about your mortality, thinking about the value of your life, thinking about your obligations.

Mr. Persichetti was a night nurse at the state hospital, inspired.

What interests me is whatever it is that allows the heart to continue to yearn for something the intelligence knows is impossible to have: a lost love, a shelter from life's blows, the return of a time past, even a connection to the dead.

With her eyes to the ceiling she said, It's a baby grand. Her husband turned his head on the pillow. He might have been startled to find her there. He frowned, and then hesitated, and then whispered, disbelieving, You can tell already?

She recalled how Pauline had fallen off a bus one night, late, went skidding into Creedmoor. In a novel, it would have portended the fall they were all about to take.

I have a great fondness for the liars in my stories.

They frowned, looked to one another with shallow and delighted eyes, eyes that just skimmed over the surface of things without understanding.

Any adjective you put before the noun 'writer' is going to be limiting in some way. Whether it's feminist writer, Jewish writer, Russian writer, or whatever.

I'm interested in characters who should know better, who know they should give up, move on, accept life as it is, with all its constraints - life, death, time - but don't.

It was not the future they'd been objecting to, but the loss of the past. As if it was his fault that you could now have one without the other.

His eyes were teary from the wind, red-rimmed and bloodshot. His nose was running and there were tears on his windblown cheeks.

And then George approaching, his hand stuck to his hat and the hat bent into the onslaught.