Top 44 Bobbie Ann Mason Quotes

Bruce Springsteen’s world is where everybody did these terrible jobs, if they had jobs at all, and he wanted something better.

‘In Country’ was also made into a film, which opened the story up to a broader audience.

Sometimes a book I’m reading is so terrific that when I finish, I simply turn back to page one and start all over again to see what I’ve missed, to experience it again, more deeply, or because I don’t want to let it go.

My father had all these great names for our cows. Bossy and Daisy and Petunia and Turnip. One of my jobs was to round up the cows before milking. I’d go out back with the dog and bring them in.

It was important for me to understand who I am and where I came from. To get a hold on why I do certain things.

I grew up on popular music, and rock-and-roll expresses very deep feelings of those people who don’t have a lot.

I lived on the farm with my parents and grandparents. I had no playmates as a young child, and I was indulged. I helped my grandmother piece quilts, and we made pretty albums, an old-fashioned pastime. We cut poems and pictures out of magazines.

You have to realize that, when it comes to the South, we carry around a lot of baggage. The South lost the war, and I spent years denying my culture.

Because we lived only a mile outside the town of Mayfield, I was acutely conscious of being country. I felt inferior to people in town because we had to grow our food and make our clothes.

During the Cold War, workers proudly contributed to national defense, but the carelessness and haste in handling toxic waste created a nightmare of pollution for subsequent generations.

‘In Country’ is about a high school girl’s quest for knowledge about her father, who died in Vietnam just before she was born.

Physicists must feel they are in the most exciting field in the world. Their minds must be afire.

Reading can be just feeding, but smart reading takes us further. The classroom is one way to go deeper, but we can’t stay in school forever.

In the early Seventies, I started writing a little autobiographical novel about my childhood – I made it into a mystery story.

Working with food was fraught with anxiety when I was a girl. Like all farmers, we were at the mercy of the weather, and we lived in fear of crop failure.

Rock and roll is about desire, about wanting something better. I think my characters all want something better. My understanding of the rock and roll dream is that a kid in an isolated place or a small town or an underprivileged world could transcend it somehow.

I was very bookish and shy. I didn’t have playmates, ever.

I often say flippantly that the short story is… shorter; you can be done with it more easily. It’s much less of a commitment of time and energy than a big project like a novel or long nonfiction book.

My father-in-law was a pilot. During World War II, he was shot down in a B-17 over Belgium. With the help of the French Resistance, he made his way through Occupied France and back to his base in England.

I read many riveting escape-and-evade accounts of airmen and of the Resistance networks organized to hide them and then send them on grueling treks across the Pyrenees to safety. But it was the people I met in France and Belgium who made the period come alive for me. They had lived it.

My father-in-law, Barney Rawlings, spent a couple of months hiding out in France in 1944, frantically memorizing a few French words to pass himself off as a Frenchman, but his ordeal had not inspired in me any action until I started taking a French class.

I like to play with words and the sounds of words – that’s extremely important to me.

I’m not very articulate. The reason I write is because I don’t talk.

Writing about where I was from and the people I knew was not something that would have occurred to me early on, because like so many Southerners of that period – the Sixties – I rejected those things when I went north.

I rejected the traditional notion of ‘women’s work,’ but I never thought of my early ambitions in a feminist way, exactly. Primarily I rebelled against apathy and limited education. I was rejecting a whole way of life that I thought trapped everyone.

Reading is so private, and it is often a reader’s habit to finish a book, close the covers, and plunge into the next one without a backward glance.

I used my NEA fellowship to write my novel, ‘In Country,’ which was published by Harper & Row in 1985.

It was a romantic dream to be a writer. It seemed like a calling.

I was too shy to do anything but read, but there was nobody to tell me what to read.

The farm is one field to the east of the railroad track that used to connect New Orleans with Chicago. The track runs beside Highway 45, an old U.S. route that unites Chicago with Mobile, Alabama.

The way I see it, a clever cat prowls but calls home occasionally.

In America, we all come from somewhere else, and we carry along some dream myth of home: a notion that something – our point of origin, our roots, the home country – is out there.

The small family farm is dying; people’s lives are being dislocated.

Writing a novel about World War II and the French Resistance was a challenge both sobering and thrilling.

Writers want to be reread. They want to think that their words don’t just flash by but deserve some reflection.

Memory is a powerful thing for a writer.

In the country in Kentucky, people are just amazed that anybody in New York wants to read about their lives.

Some people will stay at home and be content there. Others are born to run. It’s that conflict that fascinates me.

I grew up 150-200 miles from any city. You simply didn’t have much connection with the outside world. So my dreams were always to get out. It’s a familiar kind of thing, I think, for anybody in a small town.

I wanted to be somebody, go somewhere, do something with my life.

My mother watched the skies at evening for a portent of the morrow. A cloud that went over and then turned around and came back was an especially bad sign.

When I was growing up on our 53-acre dairy farm, we were obsessed with food; it was the center of our lives. We planted it, grew it, harvested it, peeled it, cooked it, served it, consumed it – endlessly, day after day, season after season.

I never, ever talk about writing to anyone at all.

Since ‘Huckleberry Finn,’ or thereabouts, it seemed that all American literature was about the alienated hero.