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
heart self secret
Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.
jealousy betrayal self
jealousy is the direct result of self-betrayal.
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.
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.
heart dark fit
After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.
kissing cities vastness
Cities, in many ways, are the best repositories for a love affair. You are in a forest or a cornfield, you are walking by the seashore, footprint after footprint of trodden sand, and somehow the kiss or the spoken covenant gets lost in the vastness and indifference of nature. In a city there are places to remind us of what has been.
running responsibility world
Writers are always anxious, always on the run--from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.