Edna O'Brien
Edna O'Brien
Edna O'Brienis an Irish novelist, memoirist, playwright, poet and short story writer. Philip Roth has described her "the most gifted woman now writing in English", while former President of Ireland Mary Robinson has cited her as "one of the great creative writers of her generation."...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth15 December 1932
CountryIreland
love people like-you
...people liking you or not liking you is an accident and is to do with them and not you. That goes for love too, only more so.
love-is awful done
I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.
falling-in-love spring differences
When you fall in love, it is spring no matter when. Leaves falling make no difference, they are from another season ...
shadow shadow-of-love inebriation
shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.
lasts lovers back-and-forth
In every question and every remark tossed back and forth between lovers who have not played out the last fugue, there is one question and it is this: Is there someone new?
beautiful flower love-is
Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.
lonely
You have to be lonely to be a writer
nurse training calling
She was an auxiliary nurse but training to be a true nurse because that was her calling, to serve mankind. She was a Martha. There were Marys and Marthas, but Marys got all the limelight because of being Christ's handmaiden, but Marthas were far more sincere.
dream morning real
The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.
horse mushrooms ponies
Wherever there were horses or ponies the mushrooms always sprang up.
moments inadequate
In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.
faces firsts madness
It was the first time that I came face to face with madness and feared it and was fascinated by it.
writing fetus
Writing is like carrying a fetus.
mother jesus hate
Oh, God, who does not exist, you hate women, otherwise you'd have made them different. And Jesus, who snubbed your mother, you hate them more.