Of the widow's countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband's death the widow should think I kept myself alive.
Joyce Carol OatesRead
Later, her first intense, serious love affair, yes then she'd lost something more tangible, if undefinable: her heart? her independence? her control of, definition of, self? That first true loss, the furious bafflement of it. And never again quite so assured, confident.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the profound impact of a first love, highlighting the feelings of loss and confusion that accompany it.
Joyce Carol Oates explores the complexities of first love, emphasizing how it can lead to significant personal loss and transformation. The emotions tied to such an intense experience may strip one of their sense of self, independence, and confidence, leading to a realization that they are forever changed by the depth of the relationship and its aftermath.
In practice
In a speech about the lessons of love at a graduation ceremony.
Of the widow's countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband's death the widow should think I kept myself alive.
I never really knew I wanted to 'be' a writer, but I was always writing from a very young age. It became more conscious as an ideal when I was in my twenties.
I'm drawn to write about upstate New York in the way in which a dreamer might have recurring dreams. My childhood and girlhood were spent in upstate New York, in the country north of Buffalo and West of Rochester. So this part of New York state is very familiar to me and, with its economic difficulties, has become emblematic of much of American life.
My writing is often a way of 'bearing witness' for others who lack the education and the opportunity to tell their own stories, so I hope that my writing won't be affected too much by my personal life.
The worst cynicism: a belief in luck.
. . . there is a wish in the heart of mankind to be distracted and confused. Truth is but one attraction, and not always the most powerful.
He loves but little who can say and count in words, how much he loves.
We aren't the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.
People cry at weddings for the same reason they cry at happy endings: because they so desperately want to believe in something they know is not credible.
And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
... Chicago divided your heart. Leaving you loving the joint for keeps. Yet knowing it never can love you.
Selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
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