Jean Stafford (July 1, 1915 – March 26, 1979) was an American short story writer and novelist. She won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford in 1970.[1][2] (wikipedia)
A small silence came between us, as precise as a picture hanging on the wall.
She did observe, with some dismay, that far from conquering all, love lazily sidestepped practical problems.
For me, there is nothing worse than the knowledge that my life holds nothing for me but being a writer.
For all practical purposes I left home when I was 7.
He does what I have always needed to have done to me, and that is that he dominates me.
You say that you hope I will be recognized as the best novelist of my generation. I want you to know now and know completely that that would mean to me absolutely nothing.
From time to time, I need a rest from the exercitation of my intellect.
Irony, I feel, is a very high form of morality.
I know this, and the knowledge eats me like an inward animal: there is nothing worse for a woman than to be deprived of her womanliness.
(My bounded brain was as) unalterable as a ball.