#prose

And write what you love - don't feel pressured to write serious prose if what you like is to be funny. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#funny #like #love #pressured #prose

Criticism is, for me, like essay writing, a wonderful way of relaxation; it doesn't require a heightened and mediated voice, like prose fiction, but rather a calm, rational, even conversational voice. ↗

— Joyce Carol Oates

#conversational #criticism #essay #even #fiction

As one who was a prosecutor for many years, I can tell you that having a tape recording of interrogations would help everybody. It would make clear if there had been improper pressure exerted on a defendant or witness, and it would also protect the interrogating officer from false claims that such pressure had been brought to bear. ↗

— Eliot Spitzer

#bear #been #brought #claims #clear

Cliches and adjectives permeated my prose. ↗

— Dick Schaap

#cliches #permeated #prose

The human brain can soften as a result of incessant listening to music with an intent to commit prose. ↗

— Donal Henahan

#commit #human #human brain #incessant #intent

You couldn't make up something that looked so right. ↗

— Chris Howard

#life #prose #art

[T]welve year old Libby O'Shea coasted on a homemade swing, toes touching a blinding-blue heaven dolloped with clouds. ↗

— Julie Lessman

#descriptive-prose #beauty

There are very few friends that will lie down with you on empty streets in the middle of the night, without a word. No questions, no asking why, just quietly lay there with you, observing the stars, until you're ready to get back up on your feet again and walk the last bit home, softly holding your hand as a quiet way of saying “I'm here”. It was a beautiful night. ↗

— Charlotte Eriksson

#empty-streets #free #friendship #love #night

Colors shone with exceptional clarity in the rain. The ground was a deep black, the pine branches a brilliant green, the people wrapped in yellow looking like special spirits that were allowed to wander over the earth on rainy mornings only. ↗

— Haruki Murakami

#clarity #colours #prose #rain #spirit

He dropped the phone back onto its cradle, began to turn around and felt a sudden ice-cold furrow open up in his side. Strength drained from his legs, and a moment later he sank to his knees. There was warmth now that ran over the initial and persistent cold. Mohammed was confused, and barely noticed the briefcase being removed from his grip. He heard the click of a cell phone opening, and a soft beeping as a number was dialed. 'The package is in my possession,' a female voice said, and the phone clicked shut. ↗

— R.D. Ronald

#death-and-dying #descriptive-prose #death