I’ve been reading reviews of my stories for twenty-five years, and can’t remember a single useful point in any of them, or the slightest good advice.
I do not share the pessimism of the age about the novel. They are one of our greatest spiritual, aesthetic and intellectual inventions. As a species it is story that distinguishes us, and one of the supreme expressions of story is the novel. Novels are not content. Nor are they are a mirror to life or an explanation of life or a guide to life. Novels are life, or they are nothing.
I had a funny feeling as I saw the house disappear, as though I had written a poem and it was very good and I had lost it and would never remember it again.
A Damascus blade gleaming, and glancing in the sun was her wit. Her swift poetic rapture like the long glistening note of a bird one hears in the woods in June at high noon, but never can see….So intimate and passionate, her love of Nature, she seemed herself a part of the high March sky - the Summer day and bird call.
Susan Dickinson’s obituary for her sister-in-law Emily. Original manuscript, drafts and newspaper clippings here.