#sentences

Beautiful sentences pop into my head. Beautiful sentences that aren't always absolutely accurate. Then, I have to choose between the beautiful sentence and being absolutely accurate. It can be a difficult choice. ↗

— Christopher Hitchens

#accurate #always #beautiful #being #between

I have tried for much of my life to write as if I was composing my sentences to be read posthumously. ↗

— Christopher Hitchens

#i #life #much #my life #read

Sentences are not as such either true or false. ↗

— J. L. Austin

#false #sentences #such #true

Proverbs are short sentences drawn from long experience. ↗

— Miguel de Cervantes

#experience #long #long experience #proverbs #sentences

What makes literature interesting is that it does not survive its translation. The characters in a novel are made out of the sentences. That's what their substance is. ↗

— Jonathan Miller

#does #interesting #literature #made #makes

Don't forget that the only two things people read in a story are the first and last sentences. Give them blood in the eye on the first one. ↗

— Herbert Bayard Swope

#eye #first #forget #give #last

It's always nice to end your sentences with an exclamation mark, and not a comma. ↗

— Joey Santiago

#comma #end #exclamation #mark #nice

In Washington, I found myself as a 31-year-old in a room with the president, vice president, and secretaries of state and defense, and I was unfazed by it. But get me around a rock star I grew up with and I have trouble completing sentences. ↗

— Joe Scarborough

#completing #defense #found #get #grew

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

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