AC

Amanda Coplin
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Full Name and Common Aliases


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Amanda Coplin is the only well-known writer to be discussed in this biography.

Birth and Death Dates


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Born: 1976, USA
Passed away: N/A (still active)

Nationality and Profession(s)


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American novelist and short story writer

Early Life and Background


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Amanda Coplin was born in the United States in 1976. Her early life and background are not extensively documented, but it's known that she developed a passion for storytelling at an early age. This interest would later shape her career as a writer.

As a child, Coplin spent much of her time exploring the vast expanse of the Pacific Northwest, where she drew inspiration from the region's rugged landscape and its people. Her experiences living in this area had a profound impact on her writing, which often explores themes of identity, place, and human connection.

Major Accomplishments


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Amanda Coplin made a name for herself with her debut novel The Orchardist, published in 2012 to widespread critical acclaim. The book tells the story of Reid Thatcher, an orchardist living on the margins of society, who finds himself drawn into a world of love and tragedy.

The Orchardist was nominated for several prestigious awards, including the National Book Award and the Dayton Literary Peace Prize. The novel has been praised for its lyrical prose, nuanced characters, and unflinching exploration of themes such as loneliness, isolation, and the human condition.

Notable Works or Actions


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In addition to The Orchardist, Coplin's writing has appeared in various publications, including The New Yorker and Harper's Magazine. Her work often explores themes of identity, place, and the complexities of human relationships.

Coplin is also known for her distinctive narrative voice, which blends elements of lyrical prose with a keen observational eye. This unique style has captivated readers and critics alike, cementing her reputation as one of the most innovative voices in contemporary American literature.

Impact and Legacy


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Amanda Coplin's writing has had a significant impact on the literary landscape, particularly among readers who appreciate nuanced explorations of the human condition. Her work has been praised for its emotional depth, its willingness to confront difficult themes, and its unflinching commitment to telling stories that need to be told.

As a writer, Coplin continues to push boundaries and challenge her readers with complex, thought-provoking narratives. Her legacy is one of sensitivity, compassion, and an unwavering dedication to the power of storytelling.

Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered


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Amanda Coplin's writing has been widely praised for its lyrical prose, nuanced characters, and unflinching exploration of themes such as loneliness, isolation, and the human condition. Her unique narrative voice, which blends elements of poetic prose with a keen observational eye, has captivated readers and critics alike.

As a result, Coplin is widely quoted or remembered for her ability to craft stories that are both deeply personal and universally relatable. Her work continues to resonate with readers who appreciate complex, thought-provoking narratives that explore the complexities of human relationships.

Quotes by Amanda Coplin

How lovely, the portraitist kept saying. How lovely.
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How lovely, the portraitist kept saying. How lovely.
And that was the point of children, thought Caroline Middey: to bind us to the earth and to the present, to distract us from death. A distraction dressed as a blessing: but dressed so well, and so truly, that it became a blessing. Or maybe it was the other way around: a blessing first, before a distraction.
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And that was the point of children, thought Caroline Middey: to bind us to the earth and to the present, to distract us from death. A distraction dressed as a blessing: but dressed so well, and so truly, that it became a blessing. Or maybe it was the other way around: a blessing first, before a distraction.
We do not belong to ourselves alone, she wanted to say, but there was no one to speak to.
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We do not belong to ourselves alone, she wanted to say, but there was no one to speak to.
The narrow bed with its purple, red, and green quilt, the bedside table with its jar of rocks, piled books. The porcelain basin near the window where she washed her face, the pitcher with the brown rose painted on it, the large crack like a vein in the bottom of the basin. The apricot orchard, the buzzing bees like a haze in spring. The barn – the smell of hay and manure, grease, old leather. The sun streaming through the slats. The mule’s nose in her palm.
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The narrow bed with its purple, red, and green quilt, the bedside table with its jar of rocks, piled books. The porcelain basin near the window where she washed her face, the pitcher with the brown rose painted on it, the large crack like a vein in the bottom of the basin. The apricot orchard, the buzzing bees like a haze in spring. The barn – the smell of hay and manure, grease, old leather. The sun streaming through the slats. The mule’s nose in her palm.
Objects too at times, after all, like the landscape, held the potential for meaning- she took out the first object now- and were able to comfort.
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Objects too at times, after all, like the landscape, held the potential for meaning- she took out the first object now- and were able to comfort.
When one is young, he thought, one thinks that one will never know oneself. But the knowledge comes later; if not all, then some. An important amount.
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When one is young, he thought, one thinks that one will never know oneself. But the knowledge comes later; if not all, then some. An important amount.
She revered solitude, but only because there was the possibility of breaking it.
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She revered solitude, but only because there was the possibility of breaking it.
She was both more assured and quieter, deeper. It was as if the distance she had traveled had ironed out some of her foolish impulsiveness, her flippancy.
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She was both more assured and quieter, deeper. It was as if the distance she had traveled had ironed out some of her foolish impulsiveness, her flippancy.
The night has made up its mind. It’s we who are too slow, who move in the wake of events already decided for us, who refuse, who are too weak or too simple, or are perhaps, strictly, unable to understand.
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The night has made up its mind. It’s we who are too slow, who move in the wake of events already decided for us, who refuse, who are too weak or too simple, or are perhaps, strictly, unable to understand.
He did not go after her himself, but those months after he fell out of the tree, though his physical wounds more or less healed – though he walked with a slight limp afterward – a kind of vacancy, a silence, hung around him, like a mantle on his shoulders.
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He did not go after her himself, but those months after he fell out of the tree, though his physical wounds more or less healed – though he walked with a slight limp afterward – a kind of vacancy, a silence, hung around him, like a mantle on his shoulders.
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