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“In every way that counted, I was dead. Inside somewhere maybe I was screaming and weeping and howling like an animal, but that was another person deep inside, another person who had no access to the lips and face and mouth and head, so on the surface I just shrugged and smile and kept moving. If I could have physically passed away, just let it all go, like that, without doing anything, stepped out of life as easily as walking through a door I would have done. But I was going to sleep at night and waking in the morning, disappointed to be there and resigned to existence.”
― Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders
― Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders
“When does a fake Mohawk become a real Mohawk? Who decides? How do you know if it's happened?”
― A Visit from the Goon Squad
― A Visit from the Goon Squad
“Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.”
― Mourning Diary: October 26, 1977–September 15, 1979
― Mourning Diary: October 26, 1977–September 15, 1979
“There is no bleaker moment in life of the city than that one which crosses the boundary lines between those who have not slept all night and those who are going to work. It was for Sabina as if two races of men and women lived on earth, the night people and the day people, never meeting face to face except at this moment.”
― A Spy in the House of Love
― A Spy in the House of Love
“Poetry arises from the desire to get beyond the finite and the historical—the human world of violence and difference—and to reach the transcendent or divine. You're moved to write a poem, you feel called upon to sing, because of that transcendent impulse. But as soon as you move from that impulse to the actual poem, the song of the infinite is compromised by the finitude of its terms.”
― The Hatred of Poetry
― The Hatred of Poetry
Will’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Will’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
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