#sentences

Originality is not seen in single words or even in sentences. Originality is the sum total of a man's thinking or his writing. ↗

— Isaac Bashevis Singer

#his #man #originality #seen #sentences

I write longer sentences than most of the others, maybe because I probably like Henry James more than they do. ↗

— Peter Straub

#henry #henry james #i #i write #james

A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. ↗

— William Strunk, Jr.

#drawing #lines #machine #paragraph #parts

It should consist of short, sharply focused sentences, each of which is a whole scene in itself. ↗

— Theodore Sturgeon

#each #focused #itself #scene #sentences

What else exhausts like sustained deception? ↗

— Leif Enger

#deception

I am damned,' thinks Bunny Munro in a sudden moment of self-awareness reserved for those who are soon to die. ↗

— Nick Cave

#opening-lines #opening-sentences #death

The composing room has an unlimited supply of periods available to terminate short, simple sentences. ↗

— Turner Catledge

#composing #periods #room #sentences #short

Hemingway was really early. I probably started reading him when I was just eleven or twelve. There was just something magnetic to me in the arrangement of those sentences. Because they were so simple - or rather they appeared to be so simple, but they weren't. ↗

— Joan Didion

#arrangement #because #early #eleven #hemingway

I mean people just have a way of - y'know they'll review your record in two sentences and put you in this little stupid box that you don't want to be in. ↗

— Elliott Smith

#i #just #know #little #mean

Awakened by a thousand dogs, a passing truck, the tailspin of a poisoned mosquito (or, perhaps, merely the silence of my dreams), I had, before remembering who and where I was, seen only that green sun suspended in the firmament of my room (her uterus bottled in preserving fluids) and, through seconds that became millennia, millennia aeons, felt the steadfastness of my orbit around that cold glow of love, a marvelous fatal steadfastness, before my pupils dilated and shadows and unease once more defined reality, the steel box naked but for a mattress and insomnious bugs where I had lived, in a coma of heartbreak and drunkenness, the six months since Primavera's death. ↗

— Richard Calder

#death