Eudora Welty
Eudora Welty
Eudora Alice Weltywas an American short story writer and novelist who wrote about the American South. Her novel The Optimist's Daughter won the Pulitzer Prize in 1973. Welty was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, among numerous awards including the Order of the South. She was the first living author to have her works published by the Library of America. Her house in Jackson, Mississippi has been designated as a National Historic Landmark and is open to the public as...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth13 April 1909
CityJackson, MS
CountryUnited States of America
Location pertains to feelings - feelings are bound up in place.
A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.
The challenge to writers today, I think, is not to disown any part of our heritage. Whatever our theme in writing, it is old and tried. Whatever our place, it has been visited by the stranger, it will never be new again. It is only the vision that can be new; but that is enough.
If you haven't surprised yourself, you haven't written.
it doesn t matter if it takes a long time getting there; the point is to have a destination.
She read Dickens in the same spirit she would have eloped with him.
There is absolutely everything in great fiction but a clear answer.
A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within.
To write honestly and with all our powers is the least we can do, and the most.
The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order the continuous thread of revelation.
Indeed, learning to write may be part of learning to read. For all I know, writing comes out of a superior devotion to reading.
I like the feeling of being able to confront an experience and resolve it as art.
Southerners love a good tale. They are born reciters, great memory retainers, diary keepers, letter exchangers . . . great talkers.
When they turned off, it was still early in the pink and green fields. The fumes of morning, sweet and bitter, sprang up where they walked. The insects ticked softly, their strength in reserve; butterflies chopped the air, going to the east, and the birds flew carelessly and sang by fits and starts, not the way they did in the evening in sustained and drowsy songs.