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The Writer Cultivates, Extends, Raises And Inflates His Imagination, Sure That This Is His Destiny, His Usefulness, His Contribution To The Understanding Of Good And Evil. As He Inflates His Imagination He Inflates His Capacity For Evil.

-John Cheever

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The Writer Cultivates, Extends,

John Cheever

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The Writer Cultivates, Extends, Raises And Inflates His Imagination, Sure That This Is His Destiny, His Usefulness, His Contribution To The Understanding Of Good And Evil. As He Inflates His Imagination He Inflates His Capacity For Evil.

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People Look For Morals In Fiction Because There Has Always Been A Confusion Between Fiction And Philosophy.

The Novel Remains For Me One Of The Few Forms Where We Can Record Man's Complexity And The Strength And Decency Of His Longings.

My God, The Suburbs! They Encircled The City's Boundaries Like Enemy Territory And We Thought Of Them As A Loss Of Privacy, A Cesspool Of Conformity And A Life Of Indescribable Dreariness In Some Split-level Village Where The Place Name Appeared In The New York Times Only When Some Bored Housewife Blew Off Her Head With A Shotgun.

Children Drown, Beautiful Women Are Mangled In Automobile Accidents, Cruise Ships Founder, And Men Die Lingering Deaths In Mines And Submarines, But You Will Find None Of This In My Accounts.

I Love You Not For The Person You Are, But For Your Possibilities.

The Short Story Is The Literature Of The Nomad.

That's The Way I Remember Them, Heading For An Exit.

The Constants That I Look For Are A Love Of Light And A Determination To Trace Some Moral Chain Of Being.

Wisdom We Know Is The Knowledge Of Good And Evil - Not The Strength To Choose Between The Two.

Alice Malloy Had Dark, Stringy Hair, And Even Her Husband, Who Loved Her More Than He Knew, Was Sometimes Reminded By Her Lean Face Of A Tenement Doorway On A Rainy Day, For Her Countenance Was Long, Vacant, And Weakly Lighted, A Passage For The Gentle Transports And Miseries Of The Poor.

There Is A Terrible Sameness To The Euphoria Of Alcohol And The Euphoria Of Metaphor.

It Was A Splendid Summer Morning And It Seemed As If Nothing Could Go Wrong.

I Sometimes Go Back To Walk Through The Ghostly Remains Of Sutton Place Where The Rude, New Buildings Stand Squarely In One Another's River Views.

I Dream That My Face Appears On A Postage Stamp.

To Be An American And Unable To Play Baseball Is Comparable To Being A Polynesian And Unable To Swim.

She Cried For Herself, She Cried Because She Was Afraid That She Herself Might Die In The Night, Because She Was Alone In The World, Because Her Desperate And Empty Life Was Not An Overture But An Ending, And Through It All She Could See Was The Rough, Brutal Shape Of A Coffin.

...the Sounds Next Door Served As A Kind Of Trip Wire: I Seemed To Stumble And Fall On My Face, Skinning And Bruising Myself Here And There And Scattering My Emotional And Intellectual Possessions. There Was No Point In Pretending That I Had Not Fallen, For When We Are Stretched Out In The Dirt We Must Pick Ourselves Up And Brush Off Our Clothes. This Then, In A Sense, Is What I Did, Reviewing My Considered Opinions On Marriage, Constancy, Man's Nature, And The Importance Of Love. When I Had Picked Up My Possessions And Repaired My Appearance, I Fell Asleep.

We Praise Him, We Bless Him, We Adore Him, We Glorify Him, And We Wonder Who Is That Baritone Across The Aisle And That Pretty Woman On Our Right Who Smells Of Apple Blossoms. Our Bowels Stir And Our Cod Itches And We Amend Our Prayers For The Spiritual Life With The Hope That It Will Not Be Too Spiritual.

The Organizations Of Men, Like Men Themselves, Seem Subject To Deafness, Near-sightedness, Lameness, And Involuntary Cruelty. We Seem Tragically Unable To Help One Another, To Understand One Another.

The Poet Or Storyteller Who Feels That He Is Competing With A Superb Double Play In The World Series Is A Lost Man. One Would Not Want As A Reader A Man Who Did Not Appreciate The Finesse Of A Double Play.

Novels Are About Men And Women And Children And Dogs, Not Politics.

Good Writers Are Often Excellent At A Hundred Other Things, But Writing Promises A Greater Latitude For The Ego.

When I Remember My Family, I Always Remember Their Backs. They Were Always Indignantly Leaving Places.

Literature Has Been The Salvation Of The Damned, Literature Has Inspired And Guided Lovers, Routed Despair And Can Perhaps In This Case Save The World.

The Main Emotion Of The Adult American Who Has Had All The Advantages Of Wealth, Education, And Culture Is Disappointment.

I Was Born Into No True Class And It Was My Decision Early In Life To Insinuate Myself Into The Middle Class Like A Spy So That I Would Have An Advantageous Position Of Attack, But I Seem Now And Then To Have Forgotten My Mission, And To Have Taken My Disguises Too Seriously.

Who Reads Short Stories? One Is Asked, And I Like To Think That They Are Read By Men And Women In The Dentist's Office, Waiting To Be Called To The Chair; They Are Read On Transcontinental Plane Trips Instead Of Watching Banal And Vulgar Films Spin Out The Time Between Our Coasts; They Are Read By Discerning And Well-informed Men And Women Who Seem To Feel That Narrative Fiction Can Contribute To Our Understanding Of One Another And The Sometimes Bewildering World Around Us.

Only The Opium Eater Truly Understands The Pain Of Death.

Now Working Is Terribly Painful And I'm Still Having A Fight With The Booze. I've Enlisted The Help Of A Doctor But It's Touch And Go. A Day For Me; A Day For The Hootch.

I Believe That Writing Is An Account Of The Powers Of Extrication.

My Veins Are Filled, Once A Week With A Neapolitan Carpet Cleaner Distilled From The Adriatic And I Am As Bald As An Egg. However I Still Get Around And Am Mean To Cats.

I Don't Like To See All My Energies, All Of My Youth, Wasted In Fur Coats And Radios And Slipcovers.

If There Is Anybody I Detest, It Is Weak-minded Sentimentalists-all Those Melancholy People Who, Out Of An Excess Of Sympathy For Others, Miss The Thrill Of Their Own Essence And Drift Through Life Without Identity, Like A Human Fog, Feeling Sorry For Everyone.

How Can A People Who Do Not Mean To Understand Death Hope To Understand Love, And Who Will Sound The Alarm?

Falsehood Is A Critical Element In Fiction. Part Of The Thrill Of Being Told A Story Is The Chance Of Being Hoodwinked. . .the Telling Of Lies Is A Sort Of Sleight Of Hand That Displays Our Deepest Feelings About Life.

I Look Up The Telephone Number Of Alcoholics Anonymous. Then, My Hands Shaking, I Open The Bar And Drink The Leftover Whiskey, Gin And Vermouth-whatever I Can Lay My Shaking Hands On.

The Need To Write Comes From The Need To Make Sense Of One's Life And Discover One's Usefulness.

What I Am Going To Write Is The Last Of What I Have To Say. I Will Say That Literature Is The Only Consciousness We Possess And That Its Role As Consciousness Must Inform Us Of Our Ability To Comprehend The Hideous Danger Of Nuclear Power.

The Fear Of Death Is For All Of Us Everywhere, But For The Great Intelligence Of The Opium Eater It Is Beautifully Narrowed Into The Crux Of Drugs.

All Literary Men Are Red Sox Fans - To Be A Yankee Fan In A Literate Society Is To Endanger Your Life.

The Secret Of Keeping Young Is To Read Children's Books. You Read The Books They Write For Little Children And You'll Keep Young. You Read Novels, Philosophy, Stuff Like That And It Makes You Feel Old.

I Write To Make Sense Of My Life." -john Cheever, Quoted In _cheever - A Life_ (2009) By Blake Bailey

I Have Always Been The Lover - Never The Beloved - And I Have Spent Much Of My Life Waiting For Trains, Planes, Boats, Footsteps, Doorbells, Letters, Telephones, Snow, Rain, Thunder.

Fiction Is Art And Art Is The Triumph Over Chaos… To Celebrate A World That Lies Spread Out Around Us Like A Bewildering And Stupendous Dream.

The Writer Cultivates, Extends, Raises And Inflates His Imagination, Sure That This Is His Destiny, His Usefulness, His Contribution To The Understanding Of Good And Evil. As He Inflates His Imagination He Inflates His Capacity For Evil.

Without A Reader, I Cannot Write. It's Like A Kiss: They Cannot Be Done Alone.

Sometimes The Easiest-seeming Stories To A Reader Are The Hardest Kind To Write.

For Me A Page Of Good Prose Is Where One Hears The Rain. A Page Of Good Prose Is When One Hears The Noise Of Battle.... A Page Of Good Prose Seems To Me The Most Serious Dialogue That Well-informed And Intelligent Men And Women Carry On Today In Their Endeavor To Make Sure That The Fires Of This Planet Burn Peaceably.

Fiction Must Compete With First-rate Reporting. If You Cannot Write A Story That Is Equal To A Factual Account Of Battle In The Streets Or Demonstrations, Then You Can't Write A Story.

Homesickness Is . . . Absolutely Nothing. Fifty Percent Of The People In The World Are Homesick All The Time. . . . You Don't Really Long For Another Country. You Long For Something In Yourself That You Don't Have, Or Haven't Been Able To Find.

Fear Tastes Like A Rusty Knife And Do Not Let Her Into Your House. Courage Tastes Of Blood. Stand Up Straight. Admire The World. Relish The Love Of A Gentle Woman.

Admite The World. Relish The Love Of A Gentle Woman. Trust In The Lord.

Trust In The Lord

A Page Of Good Prose Remains Invincible.

For Lovers, Touch Is Metamorphosis. All The Parts Of Their Bodies Seem To Change, And They Seem To Become Something Different And Better.

How Can We Describe The Most Exalted Experience Of Our Physical Lives [sex], As If-jack, Wrench, Hubcap, And Nuts-we Were Describing The Changing Of A Flat Tire?

These Stories Seem At Times To Be Stories Of A Long-lost World When The City Of New York Was Still Filled With A River Light, When You Heard The Benny Goodman Quartets From A Radio In The Corner Stationery Store, And When Almost Everybody Wore A Hat.

When The Beginnings Of Self Destruction Enter The Heart, It Seems No Bigger Than A Grain Of Sand.

I Was Here On Earth Because I Chose To Be.

The Task Of An American Writer Is Not To Describe The Misgivings Of A Woman Taken In Adultery As She Looks Out Of A Window At The Rain But To Describe Four Hundred People Under The Lights Reaching For A Foul Ball. This Is Ceremony.

Homesickness Is Nothing. Fifty Percent Of The People In The World Are Homesick All The Time.

Fear Tastes Like A Rusty Knife And Do Not Let Her Into Your House.

A Lonely Man Is A Lonesome Thing, A Stone, A Bone, A Stick, A Receptacle For Gilbey's Gin, A Stooped Figure Sitting At The Edge Of A Hotel Bed, Heaving Copious Sighs Like The Autumn Wind.

Art Is The Triumph Over Chaos.

Fiction Is Experimentation; When It Ceases To Be That, It Ceases To Be Fiction.

At My Back I Hear The Word-"homosexual"-and It Seems To Split My World In Two.... It Is Ignorance, Our Ignorance Of One Another, That Creates This Terrifying Erotic Chaos. Information, A Crumb Of Information, Seems To Light The World.

A Collection Of Short Stories Is Generally Thought To Be A Horrendous Clinker; An Enforced Courtesy For The Elderly Writer Who Wants To Display The Trophies Of His Youth, Along With His Trout Flies.

I Do Not Understand The Capricious Lewdness Of The Sleeping Mind.

Love With Its Paraphernalia Of Sexuality, Jealousy, Nostalgia And Exaltation Was Easier To Reognize Than Friendship, Which Seemed To Have (excepting Athletic Equipment) No Paraphernalia At All.

Everything Outside Was Elegant And Savage And Fleshy. Everything Inside Was Slow And Cool And Vacant. It Seemed A Shame To Stay Inside.

Avoid Kneeling In Unheated Stone Churches. Ecclesiastical Dampness Causes Prematurely Grey Hair.

To Disguise Nothing, To Conceal Nothing, To Write About Those Things That Are Closest To Our Pain, Our Happiness; To Write About Our Sexual Clumsiness, The Agonies Of Tantalus, The Depth Of Our Discouragement-what We Glimpse In Our Dreams-our Despair. To Write About The Foolish Agonies Of Anxiety, The Refreshment Of Our Strength When These Are Ended; To Write About Our Painful Search For Self, Jeopardized By A Stranger In The Post Office, A Half-seen Face In A Train Window, To Write About The Continents And Populations Of Our Dreams, About Love And Death, Good And Evil, The End Of The World.

Then It Is Dark; It Is A Night Where Kings In Golden Suits Ride Elephants Over The Mountains.

You Can't Expect To Communicate With Anyone If You're A Bore.

There Isn't A King Or A Merchant Prince In The Whole World That I Envy, For I Always Knew I Was Born To Be A Child Of Destiny And That I Was Never Meant To Wring My Living From Detestable, Low, Degrading, Mean And Ordinary Kinds Of Business.

The World That Was Not Mine Yesterday Now Lies Spread Out At My Feet, A Splendor. I Seem, In The Middle Of The Night, To Have Returned To The World Of Apples, The Orchards Of Heaven. Perhaps I Should Take My Problems To A Shrink, Or Perhaps I Should Enjoy The Apples That I Have, Streaked With Color Like The Evening Sky.

Never Eat A Heavily Sugared Doughnut Before You Go On Tv.

Fiction Is Art And Art Is The Triumph Over Chaos (no Less) And We Can Accomplish This Only By The Most Vigilant Exercise Of Choice, But In A World That Changes More Swiftly That We Can Perceive There Is Always The Danger That Our Powers Of Selection Will Be Mistaken And That The Vision We Serve Will Come To Nothing.

For Me, A Page Of Good Prose Is Where One Hears The Rain And The Noise Of Battle. It Has The Power To Give Grief Or Universality That Lends It A Youthful Beauty.

I Can't Write Without A Reader. It's Precisely Like A Kiss - You Can't Do It Alone.

For These Are Not As They Might Seem To Be, The Ruins Of Our Civilization, But Are Temporary Encampment And Outposts Of The Civilization That We - You And I - Shall Build.

Our Country Is The Best Country In The World. We Are Swimming In Prosperity And Our President Is The Best President In The World. We Have Larger Apples And Better Cotton And Faster And More Beautiful Machines. This Makes Us The Greatest Country In The World. Unemployment Is A Myth. Dissatisfaction Is A Fable. In Preparatory School America Is Beautiful. It Is The Gem Of The Ocean And It Is Too Bad. It Is Bad Because People Believe It All. Because They Become Indifferent. Because They Marry And Reproduce And Vote And They Know Nothing.

It Is Not, As Somebody Once Wrote, The Smell Of Corn Bread That Calls Us Back From Death; It Is The Lights And Signs Of Love And Friendship.

The Novel Remains For Me One Of The Few Forms Where We Can Record Man's Complexity And The Strength And Decency Of His Longings. Where We Can Describe, Step By Step, Minute By Minute, Our Not Altogether Unpleasant Struggle To Put Ourselves Into A Viable And Devout Relationship To Our Beloved And Mistaken World.

I've Been Homesick For Countries I've Never Been, And Longed To Be Where I Couldn't Be.

The Irony Of Christmas Is Always Upon The Poor In Heart; The Mystery Of The Solstice Is Always Upon The Rest Of Us.

The Deep Joy We Take In The Company Of People With Whom We Have Just Recently Fallen In Love Is Undisguisable.

All Things Of The Sea Belong To Venus; Pearls And Shells And Alchemists' Gold And Kelp And The Riggish Smell Of Neap Tides, The Inshore Green, And Purple Further Out And The Joy Of Distances And The Roar Of Falling Masonry, All These Are Hers, But She Doesn't Come Out Of The Sea For All Of Us.

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