Dave Eggers


American Writer, Editor, Publisher, Novelist and Screenwriter, known for memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"

Author Quotes

This boy thinks I am not of his species, that I am some other kind of creature, one that can be crushed under the weight of a phone book. The pain is not great, but the symbolism is disagreeable.

Toph looks at me. I nod gravely. In this world, in our new world, there will be rocking. We will pay tribute to musicmakers like Journey, particularly if this is Two-for-Tuesday, which means inevitably that one of the songs will be: Just a small-town girl...

We lose weeks like buttons, like pencils.

What is building, and rebuilding and rebuilding again, but an act of faith?

Who says we don?t want to be inspired? We fucking want to be inspired! What the fuck is wrong with us wanting to be inspired? Everyone acts like it?s some crazy idea, some outrageous ungrantable request. Don?t we deserve grand human projects that give us meaning?

You have what I can afford to give. You are a panhandler, begging for anything, and I am the man walking briskly by, tossing a quarter or so into your paper cup. I can afford to give you this. This does not break me.

Young men, come and blow things up.

This had happened to him before - in an effort to disappear, he had made himself more conspicuous.

Toph, I want to tell you something. I want to tell you about my nipples. I want to tell you about my nipples, and generally about the nipples of the men in our family. Because someday, son [I do this thing, and he does this thing, where I call him son and he calls me dad, when we are having funny father-son-type chats, mocking them in a way while also being secretly, deeply queasy about using these terms], someday my nipples will be your nipples. Someday you too will have nipples that protrude unnaturally far from your chest, and which will harden at the slightest provocation, preventing you from wearing anything but the heaviest cotton T-shirts.

We must do extraordinary things. We have to. It would be absurd not to.

What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming Lips?s new album is ravishing and I?ve listened to it a thousand times already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn 90210. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who?s up and who?s down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a fuck-load of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes.

Who were these people, all of them young couples, a few fabulous ones, tall thin-haired blondes with toned men in perfectly pressed jeans -- neither fearing the loss of the other.

You invite things to happen. You open the door. You inhale. And if you inhale the chaos, you give the chaos, the chaos gives back.

Your life has been lived a hundred times. A thousand times. It's not all that great, really. Don't take it so seriously. Don't handle it so delicately.

This is a terrible way to think. It is no way to live, to wait to love.

Two chubby, expressionless boys stand to my right. They were once cute children, but now I imagine that they spend hours in dark rooms looking at violent porn. Or perhaps they have tender reveries about being sweet to the girls that they adore from a distance. I'd like to think about them in a generous light -- that they are actually gentle young men -- but it's hard not to stereotype them as potential serial killers. It's their eerie, still blankness that makes me think they're capable of murder -- and the fact that I'm in the Midwest. The Midwest seems to cultivate serial killing. Must be the boxed in geography. (Jonathan Ames, Middle-American Gothic)

We see the beauty within and cannot say no.

What the fuck does it take to show you motherfuckers, what does it fucking take what do you want how much do you want because I am willing and I'll stand before you and I'll raise my arms and give you my chest and throat and wait, and I've been so old for so long, for you, for you, I want it fast and right through me-- Oh do it, do it motherfuckers, do it do it you fuckers finally, finally, finally.

Why did we do that to Pluto? We had it good with Pluto.

You know how you finish a bag of chips and you hate yourself? You know you?ve done nothing good for yourself. That?s the same feeling, and you know it is, after some digital binge. You feel wasted and hollow and diminished.

Your tools have elevated gossip, hearsay and conjecture to the level of valid, mainstream communication. And besides that, it?s fucking dorky. Mae exhaled

This is the peculiar problem of constant connectivity: any silence of more than a few hours provokes apocalyptic thoughts.

Under the guise of having every voice heard, you create mob rule, a filterless society where secrets are crimes.

We thought we were young and that there would be time to love well sometime in the future. This is a terrible way to think. If I ever love again, I will not wait to love as I can. It is no way to live, to wait to love.

What would a brain do if not these sorts of exercises? I have no idea how people function without near-constant chaos. I'd lose my mind.

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American Writer, Editor, Publisher, Novelist and Screenwriter, known for memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"