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Quote by Nick Flynn

“My friend asked me if it had been cathartic, to write my memoir. I looked down at the sculptures—it was cathartic for me to look at them, but I could imagine it might have been hell to make them (I was cheered / when I came first to know / that there were flowers also / in hell). No, I answered—how was it for you to read it? Aristotle, in his Poetics, never promised catharsis for the makers of art, only for the audience.”

Quote by Nick Flynn

Work

The Reenactments

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Author

Nick Flynn
Nick Flynn

Nick Flynn is an American writer born on January 26, 1960. His works are inspired by personal experiences and explore themes such as family, identity, and memory. Flynn's writing style is unique, with poetic language that resonates with readers. more

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“First of all, Mr. Cheating Bastard, this is no time to be insulting my car-care abilities, and secondly, she doesn't want to talk to you." He hung his head. "It is true, I have been a bad husband, a stupid man, and a careless friend, but I love my wife and I must talk to her." He really looked dreadful, which was satisfying. I shook my head. "Did you just arrive?" He nodded. "Then you haven't unpacked yet, which will save you some time. Go back to Italy, Berto, back to your little girlfriend." "She is gone. It is over." I switched over to disgusted frown. "Well. Maggie is not a consolation prize, shithead. She's the trophy, the Pulitzer, the Nobel. The fact that your girlfriend dumped you means nothing. Go home.”

“Berto." Voice like ice. "Maggie, cara mia!" Voice like fire. He leapt forward to embrace her, but she held up her hand, her face grave. I noticed she'd freshened her lipstick, though. No dummy, that one. "Back off! I am not going to forgive you, so don't fritter your charm. You broke my heart and sent me flying home like a kicked dog." Maggie was just warming up. "I fled my home, my work, my friends. Every single person we know, our colleagues, our neighbors, knew I had been thrown over for a younger woman and pitied me. I am not to be pitied, Berto. I am a proud and beautiful woman, and I am the one who should be pitying you. But I don't pity you, because you made your own bed. Now go back to Italy and lie in it. Alone.”

“That's what it is. That's what my morning was like: all these real physical heavy positive vibrations, the soul of this tape. The fuzzy groove. The meaning of it all, if it has one: All love, all the time. Peace and happiness in every day. Peace and happiness with cow blood dripping from your hands, bright blood staining your fingerprints because you didn't glove up since you don't normally do prep work. Peace and happiness when you're making a list of everything that's wrong with the world and squinting your eyes tight trying to imagine your way out of it. Peace, peace, peace, happiness, happiness, happiness.”

“Pjesnik čiji nas stihovi ushićuju možda je bio tužan usamljenik a glazbenik neki sjetan sanjar, ali i tada njegovo djelo dijeli vedrinu bogova i zvijezda. Ono što nam umjetnik daje, to više nije njegov mrak, njegova patnja ili tjeskoba, to je kaplja čišste svjetlosti, vječite vedrine. Kad i cijeli narodi i jezici pokušavaju doprijeti do dubine svijeta, u mitovima, kozmologiji i raznim religijama, ono posljednje i najviše što mogu dostići, to je ta vedrina. Sjećas li se starih Indijaca, naš je stari waldzellski učitelj jednom o njima pričao: svijt patnje, razmišljanja, pokore, askeze; ali posljednja velika otkrića njegova duha bila su svijetla i vedra, vedar je smješak onih koji su preboljeli svijet i smješak Buddhe, vedri su likovi njegove dubokoumne mitologije.”