I've given my memoirs far more thought than any of my marriages. You can't divorce a book.
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He who believes that the past cannot be changed has not yet written his memoirs.
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As an editor, I've always known that memoirs are selective truth. I don't know that I've ever known anybody who created things, made them up, so much as I know that people edit their memories. We all do this.
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[Until about 25 years ago, staffers' memoirs were respectful of the man in the Oval Office.] These people were proud to serve their great men,.. Kennedy's men -- (Ted) Sorensen, (Arthur) Schlesinger -- they loved him. They weren't about to betray him.
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I plan to share my knowledge in reporting to help people cope with the storm. I will show them how to record their thoughts and talk about the importance of memoirs, journals and diaries.
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Of course I looked at memoirs and autobiographies, and I quickly realized that my thing was not going to be that, because clearly I didn't have a big story to tell.
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People think that because a novel's invented, it isn't true. Exactly the reverse is the case. Biography and memoirs can never be wholly true, since they cannot include every conceivable circumstance of what happened. The novel can do that.
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I have always distrusted memoir. I tend to write my memoirs through my fiction. It's easier to get to the truth by not claiming that you are speaking it. Some things can be said in fiction that can never be said in memoir.
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Memoirs of a Geisha
geisha memoirs
I am leaving that to Rupert Everett who is doing his kiss and tell memoirs!.. I'll keep my secrets.
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[Some question the value of accounts that have been quickly turned around.] Memoirs in general aren't of any quality or use until enough time has passed that somebody can put some perspective on what they went through,.. There's no way to give this war a chance to mean anything because we're judging it so quickly.
chance quality time war perspective judging question memoirs give
At the time I was writing it, it started as my own memoirs but transformed into a piece of fiction. All the emotions are mine, the setting is mine, the house is mine. But the characters are a composite of my students' stories.
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Interest in reading memoirs is universal. What has happened is that people are writing about more and more outrageous things. Our threshold for weirdness - you can't have just a normal childhood - has gone way up.
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My dad is very ill right now [with cancer], and I was talking the other day with a social worker from the hospice. And when I told her about what I was writing, she said, 'Oh, I know what memoirs mean. You just make it all up.' It's shocking that people who aren't in the literary community have such a reaction now.
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Anyone who believes you can't change history has never tried to write his memoirs.
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I had spent many nights in the jungle looking for game, but this was the first time I had ever spent a night looking for a man-eater. The length of road immediately in front of me was brilliantly lit by the moon, but to right and left the overhanging trees cast dark shadows, and when the night wind agitated the branches and the shadows moved, I saw a dozen tigers advancing on me, and bitterly regretted the impulse that had induced me to place myself at the man-eater's mercy. I lacked the courage to return to the village and admit I was too frightened to carry out my self-imposed task, and with teeth chattering, as much from fear as from cold, I sat out the long night. As the grey dawn was lighting up the snowy range which Iwas facing, I rested my head on my drawn-up knees, and it was in this position my men an hour later found me fast asleep; of the tiger I had neither heard nor seen anything.
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[from ]For a historian considering the achievement of a certain aim, there are heroes; for the artist treating of a man's relation to all sides of life there cannot and should not be heroes, but there should be men.[..]The historian has to deal with the results of an event, the artist with the fact of the event. An historian in describing a battle says: 'The left flank of such and such an army was advanced to attack such and such a village and drove out the enemy, but was compelled to retire; then the cavalry, which was sent to attack, overthrew..' and so on. But these words have no meaning for the artist and do not actually touch on the event itself. Either from his own experience, or from the letters, memoirs, and accounts, the artist realizes a certain event to himself, and very often (to take the example of a battle) the deductions the historian permits himself to make as to the activity of such and such armies prove to be the very opposite of the artist's deductions. The difference of the results arrived at is also to be explained by the sources from which the two draw their information. For the historian (to keep to the case of a battle) the chief source is found in the reports of the commanding officers and the commander-in-chief. The artist can draw nothing from such sources; they tell him nothing and explain nothing to him. More than that: the artist turns away from them as he finds inevitable falsehood in them. To say nothing of the fact that after any battle the two sides nearly always describe it in quite contradictory ways, in every description of a battle there is a necessary lie, resulting from the need of describing in a few words the actions of thousands of men spread over several miles, and subject to most violent moral excitement under the influence of fear, shame and death.
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We learn to appreciate what we achieve, no matter how small the achievement, because we do it ourselves. - Midge Rylander in Eighteen Months To Live
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If you aren't the woman I think you are, then this isn't the world I thought it was.
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Oh. She heard it too-no waters coursing, canyon empty, sun soundless- and the beast your life nowhere hiding (p. 103)
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I could simply kill you now, get it over with, who would know the difference? I could easily kick you in, stove you under, for all those times, mean on gin, you rammed words into my belly. (p. 52)
.. Gripping the rim of the sink you claw your way to stand and cling there, quaking with will, on heron legs, and still the hot muck pours out of you. (p. 27)
poetry life death memoir conflict death-and-dying healing hate poem mountains grieving poems mother grief son daughters verse memoirs cancer dying death-of-a-loved-one new-york alcoholism death-and-love
Blue-gold sky, fresh cloud, emerald-black mountain, trees on rocky ledges, on the summit, the tiny pin of a telephone tower-all brilliantly clear, in shadow and out. And on and through everything everywhere the sun shines without reservation (p. 97)
poetry death conflict death-and-dying healing hate poem poems mother grief son daughters verse memoirs cancer dying death-of-a-loved-one death-and-love
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