527 Quotes by Ian McEwan

  • Author Ian McEwan
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    When its gone, you’ll know what a gift love was. you’ll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    He saw that no one owned anything really. It’s all rented, or borrowed. Our possessions will outlast us, we’ll desert them in the end.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    It wasn’t torpor that kept her – she was often restless to the point of irritability. She simply liked to feel that she was prevented from leaving, that she was needed.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    Most houses were crammed with immovable objects in their proper places, and each object told you what to do – here you ate, here you slept, here you sat. I tried to imagine carpets, wardrobes, pictures, chairs, a sewing machine, in these gaping, smashed-up rooms. I was pleased by how irrelevant, how puny such objects now appeared.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    All day we’ve witnessed each other’s crimes. You killed no one today? But how many did you leave to die?

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    Girls can wear jeans and cut their hair short and wear shirts and boots because it’s okay to be a boy; for girls it’s like promotion. But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading, according to you, because secretly you believe that being a girl is degrading.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    This commonplace cycle of falling asleep and waking, in darkness, under private cover, with another creature, a pale soft tender mammal, putting faces together in a ritual of affection, briefly settled in the eternal necessities of warmth, comfort, safety, crossing limbs to draw nearer – a simple daily consolation, almost too obvious, easy to forget by daylight.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    Let the guilty bury the innocent, and let no one change the evidence.

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  • Author Ian McEwan
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    The primitive thinking of the supernaturally inclined amounts to what his psychiatric colleagues call a problem, or an idea, of reference. An excess of the subjective, the ordering of the world in line with your needs, an inability to contemplate your own unimportance. In Henry’s view such reasoning belongs on a spectrum at whose far end, rearing like an abandoned temple, lies psychosis.

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