#autobiographical

Most victims of my autobiographical verse are either far too polite, remarkably understanding unaware that I have written poems about them. ↗

— John Barton

#autobiographical #either #far #i #most

I'm not really an autobiographical writer, though I use lots of stuff from my life to make my stories seem real. But when I actually write about myself, I get very confused. ↗

— Jeffrey Eugenides

#actually #autobiographical #confused #get #i

Novelists are always resisting autobiographical readings of their work, because they know how false those can be. ↗

— Jeffrey Eugenides

#autobiographical #because #false #how #know

True stories, autobiographical stories, like some novels, begin long ago, before the acts in the account, before the birth of some of the people in the tale. ↗

— Harold Brodkey

#acts #ago #autobiographical #before #begin

I wouldn't write anything autobiographical. If you've lived a life like Laurence of Arabia, it might be a consideration, but otherwise it's a little bit vain, it seems to me. ↗

— James Lee Burke

#arabia #autobiographical #bit #consideration #i

All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster's autobiography. ↗

— Federico Fellini

#autobiographical #autobiography #oyster #pearl

I think I had actually served my apprenticeship as a writer of fiction by writing all those songs. I had already been through phases of autobiographical or experimental stuff. ↗

— Kazuo Ishiguro

#already #apprenticeship #autobiographical #been #experimental

I very much dislike writing about myself or my work, and when pressed for autobiographical material can only give a bare chronological outline which contains no pertinent facts. ↗

— Shirley Jackson

#autobiographical #bare #chronological #contains #dislike

The first book I ever wrote was in fourth grade and it was called 'Billy's Booger.' It was an autobiographical piece about a kid who was really bad at math. ↗

— William Joyce

#autobiographical #bad #billy #booger #book

Beautiful day out there,” I said, perching on the stool and crossing my legs. “It’s autumn, Sunday, great weather, and crowded everywhere you go. Relaxing indoors like this is the best thing you can do on such a nice day. It’s exhausting to get into those crowds. And the air is bad. I mostly do laundry on Sundays—wash the stuff in the morning, hang it out on the roof of my dorm, take it in before the sun goes down, do a good job of ironing it. I don’t mind ironing at all. There’s a special satisfaction in making wrinkled things smooth. And I’m pretty good at it, too. Of course, I was lousy at it at first. I put creases in everything. After a month of practice, though, I knew what I was doing. So Sunday is my day for laundry and ironing. I couldn’t do it today, of course. Too bad: wasted a perfect laundry day. ↗

— Haruki Murakami

#literary-fiction #young-adult #beauty