Simon Mawer Famous Quotes
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It is difficult to reconstruct an emotion. At times it is difficult even to admit to one. I have practiced long and hard at denying entry to such twin imposters as triumph and disaster, or love and hate, but sometimes the barriers are breached.
She knows what it is to be sad and miserable, but those emotions are almost enjoyable. They throw moments of happiness and laughter into sharper relief.
When writing fiction, you only have to know enough to be convincing on the page. I mean really convincing, of course - but you don't need academic depth.
Only occasionally do I read new fiction. Most of my reading is heavily dictated by what I'm writing at the time.
The speed of the human mind is remarkable. So is its inability to face the obvious.
Guernsey itself was overcrowded, but its cliffs were utterly empty. I spent a wonderful year with a friend, climbing them. It was sheer magic: you went from this pretty, busy village of an island to the sea cliffs and heard nothing but the gulls and the waves.
It is perfectly possible to believe two contradictory things at one and the same time - that is one of the brilliant faculties of the human mind.
If God resides anywhere ... surely he shelters behind barricades of pure chance.
I'm fond of her."Oh yeah?" title="Simon Mawer Quotes: I'm fond of her."
Oh yeah? Fond are you? I've heard of fond. I expect old erection here" - she pointed to the tube of DNA - "was fond of his victim. Fond is a prude's word, Ben. You fancy her. That's what you say. You fancy Miss Library something painful. And who knows?" She grinned, gap-toothed, like the Wife of Bath. "Maybe she fancies you.
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To be brave, you have to have a choice.
Sin is absence of God. Nothing more, nothing less.
Pundits always have something to write about; the novelist just has a blank screen.
Grief and guilt. A powerful combination. Guilt like a liquid, a thin liquor, seeping everywhere, informing everything, saturating the whole-corrosive, like seawater, scented with the rich stench of ordure and corruption, and carrying with it hard, abrasive shards of grief.
You can tell nothing from a man's appearance, nothing except the depths of your own prejudice.
Faith is the enemy of discovery.
The shutter of the photographer's camera makes that repeated mechanical sound. That unlocking and locking of the doors of light to send momentary images of the present into the light trap of the past.