#memoir

Oh I'm sure you're right," Auntie said. "Probably she's just as you say. But she looks to me like a very clever girl, and adaptable; you can see that from the shape of her ears. ↗

— Arthur Golden

#fiction #geisha #japan #memoirs #japan

Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains. ↗

— Jeffrey Rasley

#expeditions #himalayas #memoir #mountaineering #mountains

People want biography. People want memoir. They want you to tell them that the story you're telling them is true. The thing I'm telling you is true, but it did not always happen to me. ↗

— Dorothy Allison

#truth #biography

I have more freedom when I write fiction, but my memoirs have had a much stronger impact on my readers. Somehow the 'message,' even if I am not even aware that there is one, is conveyed better in this form. ↗

— Isabel Allende

#aware #better #conveyed #even #fiction

For the first time I realized adults could back themselves into corners so remote that love, or its memory, could no longer reach them. ↗

— Kirby Wright

#memoir #molokai #age

Memoirs are the backstairs of history. ↗

— George Meredith

#memoirs

I've been a storyteller since I was six years old when my mother had her first series of electroshock therapy treatments. I made up stories to keep my sisters quiet while mom slept." Dear Deb "I didn't know how it felt to have cancer, but I knew about fear." Dear Deb "Two people have tried to kill me. The first person was my mother." Dear Deb "I used to believe there were big miracles and little miracles. But, I'm not so sure God measures miracles." Dear Deb "I was raised to believe forgiveness was a gift I was supposed to give the person who hurt me, but that felt like giving a bully an ice cream cone after he pushed me down on the playground." Dear Deb "Miracles are one of God's ways of getting our attention. I know he got mine. It's a miracle I'm here." Dear Deb ↗

— Margaret Terry

#inspirational-life #memoir #faith

I put off writing the first Left Behind book for a year because I got invited to assist Billy Graham in his memoirs, and had we known what we were putting off for a year, we might not have put it off. ↗

— Jerry B. Jenkins

#because #behind #billy #billy graham #book

Sister, why do you do that?" "Do what?" "Cage the animals at night?" "Well..." She looked up and out through the barred window before answering me."We don't want to, Jennings, but we have to. You see, the animals that are given to us we have to take care of. If we didn't cage them up in one place, we might lose them, they might get hurt or damaged. It's not the best thing, but it's the only way we have to take care of them." "But if somebody loved one them," I asked, "wouldn't it be a good idea to let them have one? To keep, I mean?" "Yes, it would be. But not everyone would love them and take care of them as you would. I wish I could give them all away tomorrow." She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. "But I can't. My heart would break if I saw just one of those animals lying by the wayside uncared for, unloved. No, Jennings. It's better if we keep them together. ↗

— Jennings Michael Burch

#family #foster-care #memoirs #neglect #nun

She [Mary Maclane] is almost always referred to as “confessional.” She has been referred to, several times, as the first blogger. Whereas her writing does not confess much - it is much more spiritual memoir than anything, or perhaps something akin to a mystic’s courtly love, directed at the self. I am wondering what distinguishes writing as confessional… I keep on feeling I prefer the latter-day MacLane, the diary she wrote while convalescing from scarlet fever back home in Butte, Montana, I, Mary MacLane, that Melville House is only publishing as an ebook. Mary MacLane melancholy, totally isolated. Feeling intense disquiet. Now in her early thirties, meditating on her whirlwind celebrity, in cities, feeling distanced from all that, but longing for it too. Obsessed with the Mary MacLane who stopped writing, or stopped publishing books, who was involved with the anarchist/bohemian crowd in Chicago, with the Dill Pickle, who died in poverty and obscurity on the South Side at the age of 48. I want to write about her, but I don’t know how or why yet. ↗

— Kate Zambreno

#mary-maclane #memoir #writing #age