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There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

-Justin Cronin

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There Was Something In

Justin Cronin

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There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

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You Learn To Write By Reading, And My Experiences And Tastes As A Reader Are Pretty Wide.

I Have Any Number Of Completely Dark Obsessions And Fascinations, And None Of This Was Present In My Profile Or My Growing Profile As A Writer.

I Like Creating Villains.

And I Had Always Liked Vampire Stories Because They Are Great Material That Can Be Refashioned In Lots Of Ways.

I Think Many Years Ago I Got On A Bus In L.a. And Drove Around To See The Stars' Homes, But That's The Extent Of My Direct Experience In Hollywood.

Writing Is A Job: You Must Show Up.

He Breathed Once More, Holding The Air In His Chest, As If It Were Not Air But Something More--a Sweet Taste Of Freedom, Of All Cares Lifted, Everything Over And Done.

The Military Was All About Hierarchies, Who Urinated Highest On The Hydrant

We Live, We Die. Somewhere Along The Way, If We're Lucky, We May Find Someone To Help Lighten The Load.

One Of The Great Themes In American Literature Is The Individual's Confrontation With The Vast Open Spaces Of The Continent.

Choosing Writing As A Career, Just By Itself, Is A Measure Of Not Being A Calculating Person.

As Long As We Remember A Person, They're Not Really Gone. Their Thoughts, Their Feelings, Their Memories, They Become A Part Of Us.

This Ravishing World. This Achingly Bittersweet, Ravishing World.

I Came To Houston For A Job, The Reason Most People Move Halfway Across The Country With A First Grader And A Five-week-old. I Came Here To Teach At Rice.

She Remembered No One At All. She Remembered One Day Thinking: I Am Alone. There Is No I But I. She Lived In The Dark. She Taught Herself To Walk In The Light, Though It Was Not Easy.

If You Write A Good Action Sequence Well In A Novel, You're Already Writing It For Film, Because The Only Way To Do It Well Is To Use Some Of The Same Tricks. They're Rhetorical, Not Visual, But It's The Same Move.

One Of The Traps Or The Pitfalls Of Writing A Trilogy - Or A Triptych, Or Whatever Term You Want To Use - Is That The Second Book Can Be A Long Second Act To Get You From Book One To Book Three, Which Borrows All Of Its Energy From The First Book.

If You Are Writing Any Book About The End Of The World, What You Are Really Writing About Is What's Worth Saving About It.

My Theory Of Characterization Is Basically This: Put Some Dirt On A Hero, And Put Some Sunshine On The Villain, One Brush Stroke Of Beauty On The Villain.

I Tend To Start At 9 O'clock In The Morning And Write Until 3. Those Are My Best Hours. They Fit The Other Rhythms Of The World. So I Write For Six Hours, Pretty Much Without Any Breaks.

One Thing That Worried Me Was How Writers Get Categorized And So They End Up Having To Write The Same Kind Of Book Again And Again. That Is Fine If It Is What You Want To Do, But I Would Rather Be Locked In The Trunk Of My Car With A Weasel Than Write The Same Book Every Three Years Until I Die.

And Indeed, I Am A Warmhearted And Thoroughly Domestic Man Who Gets Up And Makes Pancakes For His Children And Kisses Them On The Head When He Sends Them Off To Their Day.

Kittredge Had Obviously Misjudged Her, But He Had Learned That Was The Way With Most People. The Story Was Never The Story, And It Surprised You, How Much Another Person Could Carry.

My Inventing Time Is All Done Under The Influence Of Aerobic Exercise. Basically, I Do All My Thinking While I Run.

When You Write, You Take The Ball And You Hold It Up To The Light And You Turn It Slowly, And Let People Draw Their Own Conclusions. And Try To Bring Empathy To All Sides Of The Equation.

What Strange Places Our Lives Can Carry Us To, What Dark Passages.

Behind Every Writer Stands A Very Large Bookshelf.

Before She Became The Girl From Nowhere-the One Who Walked In, The First And Last And Only, Who Lived A Thousand Years-she Was Just A Little Girl In Iowa, Named Amy. Amy Harper Bellafonte.

Even On The Darkest Night, My Friend, Life Will Have Its Way.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

Every Book Has Got Its Challenges. You Run Into A Plot Point That You Can't Figure Out, Or A Scene That You Struggle To Write And Have To Write 50 Times.

Miles Away From Everthing And Everyone I've Ever Known Or Loved. I Feel As If I've Entered A New Era Of My Life. What Strange Places Our Lives Carry Us To.

A Thousand Recollected Lives Were Passing Through Her, A Thousand Stories - Of Love And Work, Of Parents And Children, Of Duty And Joy And Grief. Beds Slept In And Meals Eaten, And The Bliss And Pain Of The Body, And A View Of Summer Leaves From A Window On A Morning It Had Rained; The Nights Of Loneliness And The Nights Of Love, The Soul In It's Body Keeping Always Longing To Be Known.

Writers Who Pretend That Everything They're Doing Is Completely New Are Full Of It.

The Fact Is, There's A Great Deal Of Hair-splitting Fussiness When It Comes To Fly-fishing, Most Of It As Silly As A Top Hat.

Real Courage Is Doing The Right Thing When Nobody's Looking. Doing The Unpopular Thing Because It's What You Believe, And The Heck With Everybody.

And I Grew Up On A Steady Diet Of Science Fiction, Especially Apocalyptic And Postapocalyptic Fiction.

The Sadness You Feel Is Not Your Own. It's His Sadness You Feel In Your Heart, Amy, For Missing You.

Don't We All Deserve Forgiveness? I Hope We Do; I Believe We Do. Forgiveness Says As Much About The Character Of The Person Bestowing It As The Person Receiving It. Learning To Forgive May Be The Most Difficult Of Human Acts,and The Closest Thing To Divinity, Whatever You Decide That Is.

On A Fading Summer Evening, Late In The Last Hours Of His Old Life, Peter Jaxon-son Of Demetrius And Prudence Jaxon, First Family; Descendent Of Terrence Jaxon, Signatory Of The One Law; Great-great-nephew Of The One Known As Auntie, Last Of The First; Peter Of Souls, The Man Of Days And The One Who Stood-took His Position On The Catwalk Above Main Gate, Waiting To Kill His Brother.

It Was What You Did, Wolgast Understood; You Started To Tell A Story About Who You Were, And Soon Enough The Lies Were All You Had And You Became That Person.

Sara Waited A Respectful Time, Knowing There Was Nothing She Could Do To Ease The Woman's Pain. Grief Was A Place, Sara Understood, Where A Person Went Alone. It Was Like A Room Without Doors, And What Happened In That Room, All The Anger And The Pain You Felt, Was Meant To Stay There, Nobody's Business But Yours.

I Grew Up During The Cold War, When Everything Seemed Very Tenuous. For Many Years, Right Up Until The Fall Of The Berlin Wall, I Had Vivid Nightmares Of Nuclear Apocalypse.

That Literary-popular Distinction Is, In My View, Vastly Overstated. At The Far Poles There Are Clearly Books That Are Purely Commercial And Purely Literary, Written For Audiences That Want To See The Same Thing Enacted Over And Over And Over Again. But The Middle Is Where Most People Read And Most People Write.

In Her Mind's Eye She Saw It, Saw It All At Last: The Rolling Armies And The Flames Of Battle; The Graves And Pits And Dying Cries Of A Hundred Million Souls; The Spreading Darkness, Like A Black Wing Stretching Over The Earth; The Last, Bitter Hours Of Cruelty And Sorrow, And The Terrible, Final Flights; Death's Great Dominion Over All, And, At The Last, Empty Cities, Becalmed By The Silence Of A Hundred Years. Already These Things Were Coming To Pass.

Rust, Corrosion, Wind, Rain. The Nibbling Teeth Of Mice And The Acrid Droppings Of Insects And The Devouring Jaws Of Years. The Was Of Nature Upon Machines, Of The Planet's Chaotic Forces Upon The Works Of Humankind. The Energy That Man Had Pulled From The Earth Was Being Inexorably Pulled Back Into It, Sucked Like Water Down A Drain. Before Long, If It Hadn't Happened Already, Not A Single High-tension Pole Would Be Left Standing On The Earth. Mankind Had Built A World That Would Take A Hundred Years To Die. A Century For The Last Light To Go Out.

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It Had Never Occurred To Her That God Would Cry, But Of Course That Was Wrong. God Would Be Crying All The Time. He Would Cry And Cry And Never Stop.

Because That's What Heaven Is...it's Opening The Door Of A House In Twilight And Everyone You Love Is There.

I Was A 'planet Of The Apes'-obsessed Kid.

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It's Different Being Afraid When There's The Hope It Will Amount To Something.

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