(b. 1955– )
U.S. poet, memoirist, essayist, and professor
Mary Karr
Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air, a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody’s head off.
Lit (New York: Harper, 2009), 59.
Counterphobic, a shrink once called it, meaning I run fast toward any event I suspect might be excruciating.
Lit (New York: Harper, 2009), 94.
Count yourself lucky…You’re still promising until your first book’s out.
Lit (New York: Harper, 2009), 68.
I love humans—though it’s a gauge of my spiritual condition how friendly I am with my fellow New Yorkers.
“Raging Into God,” New York Magazine, by Boris Kachka, November 8, 2009.
We sit in a silence it’s hard not to scribble in with chat.
Lit (New York: Harper, 2009), 342.
By age thirty, I’m not writing squat, which I blame on my ramped-up consulting schedule, knowing full well my favorite poet was a full-time insurance exec.
Lit (New York: Harper, 2009), 120.
So many interesting females in this deranged city.
Facebook status update, November 9, 2011.
Writing about spiritual stuff for a secular audience is like doing card tricks on the radio.
“The Art of Memoir No. 1,” The Paris Review, Winter 2009, No. 191.
Poetry is a hypodermic injection of passion. It gets under your skin like snake fangs and poisons you into being alive.
Twitter, June 28, 2010.
The sky above us was going from musky yellow to purple. Colors of a cut plum, Mother said.
The Liars’ Club (New York: Penguin Books, 2005), 10th anniversary edition, 319.
I never knew despair could lie.
The Liars’ Club (New York: Penguin Books, 2005), 10th anniversary edition, 320.