William Gaddis

Let them look up in the sky then…! if they must be so blind, that cannot see the truth in broad daylight, but must have the whole world in darkness to see the conceit of the stars…

Mementos of this world, in which the things worth being were so easily exchanged for the things worth having.

The Mona Lisa, the Mona Lisa….Leonardo had eye trouble….Art couldn’t explain it….But now we’re safe, since science can explain it. Maybe Milton wrote Paradise Lost because he was blind? And Beethoven wrote the Ninth Symphony because he was deaf…

What is it they want from a man that they didn’t get from his work? What do they expect? What is there left of him when he’s done his work? What’s any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around. What’s left of the man when the work’s done but a shambles of apology.

Tragedy was foresworn, in ritual denial of the ripe knowledge that we are drawing away from one another, that we share only one thing, share the fear of belonging to another, or to others, or to God; love or money, tender equated in advertising and the world, where only money is currency, and under dead trees and brittle ornaments prehensile hands exchange forgeries of what the heart dare not surrender.

There is nothing more distressing or tiresome than a writer standing in front of an audience and reading his work.

Enjoy yourself – it’s later than you think.

Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

As the Sandwich Islander believes that the strength and valor of the enemy he kills passes into himself, so we gain the strength of the temptation we resist.

The universe is wider than our views of it.

She has lost the art of conversation, but not, unfortunately, the power of speech.

I have the conviction that excessive literary production is a social offence.

Honor bespeaks worth. Confidence begets trust. Service brings satisfaction. Cooperation proves the quality of leadership.

Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is.

The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.

Youth is unduly busy with pampering the outer person.

The greatest gift is the ability to forget – to forget the bad things and focus on the good.

The finest language is mostly made up of simple unimposing words.

Don’t order any black things. Rejoice in his memory; and be radiant: leave grief to the children. Wear violet and purple. Be patient with the poor people who will snivel: they don’t know; and they think they will live for ever, which makes death a division instead of a bond.

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.

Thought is the blossom; language the bud; action the fruit behind it.