Billy Collins writes lovely poems. Limpid, gently and consistently startling, more serious than they seem, they describe all the worlds that are and were and some others besides.
From John Updike
Memory has a spottiness, as if the film was sprinkled with developer instead of immersed in it.
Smaller than a breadbox, bigger than a TV remote, the average book fits into the human hand with a seductive nestling, a kiss of texture, whether of cover cloth, glazed jacket, or flexible paperback.
Books externalise our brains and turn our homes into thinking bodies.
Thinking it over, I can't locate another artist in the Updike family.
If my mother hadn't been trying to be a writer, I don't know if I would have thought of it myself.
I seem to have this need to belong to some church. I get worried on Sunday mornings.
I love Shillington not as one loves Capri or New York, because they are special, but as one loves one's own body and consciousness, because they are synonymous with being.
I don't think women are dumb.
Young or old, a writer sends a book into the world, not himself.
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