Don DeLillo
Don DeLillo
Donald Richard "Don" DeLillois an American novelist, playwright and essayist. His works have covered subjects as diverse as television, nuclear war, sports, the complexities of language, performance art, the Cold War, mathematics, the advent of the digital age, politics, economics, and global terrorism. Initially a well-regarded cult writer, the publication in 1985 of White Noise brought him widespread recognition. It was followed in 1988 by Libra, a bestseller. DeLillo has twice been a Pulitzer Prize for Fiction finalist), won the...
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth20 November 1936
CityBronx, NY
There's never a dearth of reasons to shoot at the President.
It is possible to be homesick for a place even when you are there.
I was always younger than anyone around me. One day it began to change.
There is a balance, a kind of standoff between the time continuum and the human entity, our frail bundle of soma and psyche. We eventually succumb to time, it's true, but time depends on us. We carry it in our muscles and genes, pass it on to the next set of time-factoring creatures, our brown-eyed daughters and jug-eared sons, or how would the world keep going. Never mind the time theorists, the cesium devices that measure the life and death of the smallest silvery trillionth of a second.... We were the only crucial clocks, our minds and bodies, way stations for the distribution of time.
Dying was just an extended version of Ash Wednesday.
Hardship makes the world obscure.
Because friends have to be brutally honest with each other. I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you what I was thinking, especially at a time like this
I slept for four years. I didn't study much of anything. I majored in something called communication arts.
There's a moral force in a sentence when it comes out right. It speaks the writer's will to live.
People who are in power make their arrangements in secret, largely as a way of maintaining and furthering that power.
Do people still shoot at presidents? I thought there were more stimulating targets.' (20)
Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself.
There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time. Where do I stand in this light, which does not strictly exist? (155)
Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.