Filed under beautiful sentences

Beautiful Sentences: David Gilbert

She had reasonable good looks, like many a reasonable girl at Exeter, the product themselves of reasonable mothers, always with dark hair never cut too short and surprisingly bad teeth—if not crooked, then yellow; if not yellow, then with large gums—and with naturally UV-protected skin, glasses almost mandatory but stylishly framed (their most overt fashion choice), bodies solid but never fat, athletic rom those reasonable genes that had survived past feminine hardship and now chased field hockey balls instead of wayward sheep, this type of reasonableness not necessarily smart but often very focused, and not guaranteed plain James because there was plenty of sex appeal and humor in that reason, a sharpness that stood in contrast to the groundless swell around them. so that these girls, these women with their chunky jaws and dirt-brown eyes and honest opinions of themselves, held the secret of their own common sense, which, if discovered, would shock you blind. These women often work in publishing.

David Gilbert, & Sons.

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Beautiful Sentences: James Wood

The acceptance of this kind of writing is dangerous not because anybody will confuse it with life, will think, “This is what life is like,” but because readers may read it and think, “This is what literature is like.”

James Wood, “Tom Wolfe’s Shallowness, and the Trouble with Information.”

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Beautiful Sentences: John Fowles

If you want to be true to life, start lying about the reality of it.

John Fowles, “Notes on an Unfinished Novel.”

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Beautiful Sentences: John Updike

Real life now commences, they are informed; the Eden of public education has shut its garden gate. A garden, Levy reflects, of rote teaching dully ignored, of the vicious and ignorant dominating the timid and dutiful, but a garden nevertheless, a weedy patch of hopes, a rough and ill-tilled seedbed of what this nation wants itself to be.

John Updike, Terrorist.

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Beautiful Sentences: Harry Levin

The history of the realistic novel shows that fiction tends towards autobiography. The increasing demands for social and psychological detail that are made upon the novelist can only be satisfied out of his own experience. The forces which make him an outsider focus his observation upon himself.

Harry Levin, James Joyce: A Critical Introduction.

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Beautiful Sentences: John Updike

Real life now commences, they are informed; the Eden of public education has shut its garden gate. A garden, Levy reflects, of rote teaching dully ignored, of the vicious and ignorant dominating the timid and dutiful, but a garden nevertheless, a weedy patch of hopes, a rough and ill-tilled seedbed of what this nation wants itself to be.

John Updike, Terrorist.

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Beautiful Sentences: Dorothy M. Richardson

People thought it was silly, almost wrong to look at the end of a book. But if it spoilt a book, there was something wrong about the book. If it was finished and the interest gone when you know who married who, what was the good of reading it at all?

Dorothy M. Richardson, Honeycomb.

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Beautiful Sentences: Kelly Link

Now that we are married, we will have the same dreams.

Kelly Link, “Shoe and Marriage.”

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Beautiful Sentences: Raymond Carver

In addition to being in love, we like each other and enjoy one another’s company. She’s easy to be with.

Raymond Carver, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.”

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Beautiful Sentences: Christian Wiman

Intellectuals and artists concerned with faith tend to underestimate the radical, inviolable innocence it requires. We read and read, write long, elaborate essays and letters, engage in endlessly inflected philosophical debates. We talk of poetry as prayer, artistic discipline as a species of religious devotion, doubt as the purest form of faith. These ideas are not inherently false. Indeed, there may be a deep truth in them. But the truth is, you might say, on the other side of innocence—permanently. That is, you don’t once pass through religious innocence into the truths of philosophy or theology or literature, any more than you pass through the wonder of childhood into the wisdom of age.

Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss.

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