Thomas Wolfe
Thomas Wolfe
Thomas Clayton Wolfewas an American novelist of the early twentieth century...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth3 October 1900
CityAsheville, NC
CountryUnited States of America
death
Death the last voyage, the longest, and the best.
america certain fixed haunting paradox perhaps strange
Perhaps this is our strange and haunting paradox here in America - that we are fixed and certain only when we are in movement.
advertising american-novelist hard mysterious predict publishing reception sale seems
Publishing is a very mysterious business. It is hard to predict what kind of sale or reception a book will have, and advertising seems to do very little good.
american-novelist time
Most of the time we think we're sick, it's all in the mind.
york
One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.
american-journalist forget reader reads writer writes
The reason a writer writes a book is to forget a book and the reason a reader reads one is to remember it.
american-journalist few half man men partly uses won
If a man has talent and can't use it, he's failed. If he uses only half of it, he has partly failed. If he uses the whole of it, he has succeeded, and won a satisfaction and triumph few men ever know.
genius wells behinds
I don't know yet what I am capable of doing, but, by God, I have genius -- I know it too well to blush behind it.
time home winning
Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time.
travel voyages lasts
There is one voyage, the first, the last, the only one.
summer sadness autumn
Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We'll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure.
beautiful lying sleep
In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are dying the darkness and we know no death.
cutting artist forever
The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free from the bonds of the greedy bourgeoisie, to be whatever the fat burghers feared most, to cross the line wherever they drew it, to look at the world in a way they couldn't see, to be high, live low, stay young forever -- in short, to be the bohemian.
healing self order
The human mind is a fearful instrument of adaptation, and in nothing is this more clearly shown than in its mysterious powers of resilience, self-protection, and self-healing. Unless an event completely shatters the order of one's life, the mind, if it has youth and health and time enough, accepts the inevitable and gets itself ready for the next happening like a grimly dutiful American tourist who, on arriving at a new town, looks around him, takes his bearings, and says, "Well, where do I go from here?