Zadie Smith Quotes

Revelation is where all crazy people end up. It's the last stop on the nutso express.

He talked and talked, the kind of talking you do to stave off the inevitable physical desire. The kind of talk that only increases it.

But why do they always have to be laughing and making a song-and-dance about everything? I cannot believe homosexuality is that much fun. Heterosexuality certainly is not.

A past tense, future perfect kind of night.

Is there anything more likely to take the shine off an affair that when the lover strikes up a convivial relationship with the lovee's mother.

… and catholics give out forgiveness at the same time politicians give out promises and whores give out.

… dressed all in yellow spreading warmth and the promise of sex.

..and the devil won another easy hand in God's poker game.

Ryan's freckles were a join-the-dot's enthusiast's wet dream.

This is what divorce is: Taking things you no longer want from people you no longer love.

The thinnest covering of luck was on him like fresh dew. While he slipped in and out of consciousness, the position of the planets, the music of the spheres, the flap of a tiger moth's diaphanous wings in Central Africa, and a whole bunch of other stuff that makes shit happen had decided it was second-chance time for Archie.

His mind was a small thing with big holes through which passions regularly seeped out.

You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, 'Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He just couldn't deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me.' Now how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll—then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.

The more blessed she felt on earth, the more rarely she turned to heaven.

As a reader, I want to claim fellowship with "good writing" without limits; to be able to say that Hurston is my sister and Baldwin is my brother, and so is Kafka my brother, and Nabokov, and Woolf my sister, and Eliot and Ozick. Like all readers, I want my limits to be drawn by my own sensibilities, not by my melanin count.