I believe that it’s important to acknowledge the ugly feelings. Don’t stuff them, suppress them, ignore them. I don’t like to be jealous, but I’m not going to pretend I’m not.
I can’t imagine writing a tight little novel that isn’t haunted by the absurd, un-fact-checkable and incomplete oral histories that raised me.
We’re always trying to compress experience into words, our lives into stories, and it’s impossible to get it exactly right. But almost everything that’s beautiful in life comes from giving it an honest shot.
Nadezhda Khvoshchinskaya is the greatest Russian writer fans of nineteenth-century literature have never heard of.
It could be the booming voice of an angel, it could be a jinn, or somebody standing behind a hill, shouting at you, and as a poet I don’t discriminate too much. I just need the raw material.
When the emotional experience is turned into a musical one, it conveys emotion to other people, but for the artist it brings—what else but joy in the well-made thing?
As often happens when you have nothing left to lose, everything just clicked, the voice she had been honing throughout her artistic career was now razor-sharp, as was her sense of humor, righteous indignation, and impatience with classical, “proper” style . . .
I grew up always wanting to be at Disneyland. It was a pilgrimage that you made as a kid. But . . . its myths worm into your consciousness.
I feel very deeply that I am a child of Haïfa, this mountain place facing the sea, on the shores of the Mediterranean, while being at the same time a citizen of the world.
This allegorical world in my writing life . . . it’s an equally alive and present world alongside my lived life. . . . Maybe it’s unclear which narrative is within the other—maybe it’s more like they’re all intertwined.