Words carry oceans on their small backs. - Lidia Yuknavitch
Little tragedies are difficult to keep straight. They swell and dive in and out between great sinkholes of the brain. - Lidia Yuknavitch
Out of the sad sack of sad shit that was my life, I made a wordhouse. - Lidia Yuknavitch
People are often asking me if the things in my short stories really happened to me. I always think this is the same question to ask of a life: did this really happen to me? The body doesn't lie. But when we bring language to the body, isn't it always already an act of fiction? With its delightfully designed composition and color saturations and graphic patterns? Its style and vantage point? Its insistence on the mind's powerful force of recollection in the face of the raw and brutal fact that the only witness was the body? - Lidia Yuknavitch
I believe in art the way other people believe in god. - Lidia Yuknavitch
My first book came out of me in a great gushing return of the repressed. Like a blood clot had loosened. My hands frenzied. Words came from my whole body, my entire life, or the lives of women and girls whose stories got stuck in their throats came gushing out. Nothing could have stopped the stories coming out of me. Even though my hands and arms and face hurt—bruised and cut from falling from a train—or a marriage—or a self in the night—I wrote story after story. There was no inside out. There were words and there was my body, and I could see through my own skin. I wrote my guts out. Until it was a book. Until my very skin made screamsong. - Lidia Yuknavitch
Photos by Michael Dweck.
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