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Quote by Jincy Willett

Work

The Writing Class

The book delves into the lives of individuals attending a writing class, highlighting their struggles, aspirations, and the transformative power of creative expression. more

Author

Jincy Willett
Jincy Willett

Jincy Willett, born on December 31, 1946, is an American author known for her humorous and satirical writing, primarily focusing on family, society, and gender issues. more

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“Atlantis? Sirens? I don't know if I believe it yet or if I think you're spinning the biggest story I've ever heard, and I'd be a fool to fall for it." They didn't have anything to add to that, but one more question popped in my head. "Does this come with a tail?" Nikkos frowned. "Tail?" "Mermaids?" I asked, a tiny four-year-old of me hopeful. "No mermaid tails, I'm afraid." Caspian chuckled. "Rip-off," I muttered. "All the trouble this voice has caused me, and I don't even get a magical tail.”

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“The thing is, if you're an ugly goon when you're 15, you're an ugly goon for the rest of your life — until the day you die. You're always a goon, even if lots of years go by, even if you get married and have a kid, even if you're more successful than you ever thought you'd be in your wildest dreams. You're still that same goon who everybody laughed at. It never changes.”

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“And George Farr had the town, the earth, the world to himself and his sorrow. Music came faint as a troubling rumor beneath the spring night, sweetened by distance: a longing knowing no ease. (Oh God, oh God!) At last George Farr gave up trying to see her. He had 'phoned vainly and time after time, at last the telephone became the end in place of the means: he had forgotten why he wanted to reach her. Finally he told himself that he hated her, that he would go away; finally he was going to as much pains to avoid her as he had been to see her. So he slunk about the streets like a criminal, avoiding her, feeling his his very heart stop when he did occasionally see her unmistakable body from a distance. And at night he lay sleepless and writhing to think of her, then to rise and don a few garments and walk past her darkened house, gazing in slow misery at the room in which he knew she lay, soft and warm, in intimate slumber, then to return to home and bed to dream of her brokenly.”

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