DG
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When Snow Falling on Cedars was published in 1994, it marked a significant moment in David Guterson's career as a writer, one that would eventually be recognized by the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and by the award for Best Crime Novel in Swedish Translation.

Born on May 4, 1956, in Seattle, Washington, Guterson attended Seattle Public Schools, including Roosevelt High School, before going on to study at the University of Washington. His formation as a writer took place within that city and that institution. Working in English, he has practiced an unusually wide range of forms — fiction, short stories, poetry, journalism, essays, and screenwriting — moving across modes rather than confining himself to one.

As a novelist, Guterson is the author of Snow Falling on Cedars. Beyond the novel, his work as a journalist, essayist, short story writer, and poet reflects a sustained engagement with writing in multiple registers. The breadth of his output across these forms distinguishes his career as a whole.

The honors Guterson received place his work in a broader context of literary recognition. The PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction represents one concrete measure of how his writing was received within American letters. The award for Best Crime Novel in Swedish Translation indicates that his work attracted attention beyond the United States as well. A Guggenheim Fellowship further acknowledged the scope and quality of his literary production. These three awards, taken together, offer the clearest factual account of where Guterson's writing has stood in the estimation of those who have evaluated it.

Quotes by David Guterson

David Guterson's insights on:

He told himself he had never felt so happy, and he felt a sort of ache that this was happening and would never again happen in just this way no matter how long he lived.
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He told himself he had never felt so happy, and he felt a sort of ache that this was happening and would never again happen in just this way no matter how long he lived.
People appeared enormously foolish to him. He understood that they were only animated cavities full of jelly and strings and liquids.
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People appeared enormously foolish to him. He understood that they were only animated cavities full of jelly and strings and liquids.
Tourists reminded him of other places and elicited in him a prodding doubt that living here was what he wanted.
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Tourists reminded him of other places and elicited in him a prodding doubt that living here was what he wanted.
Let us so live in this trying time that when it is all over we can look one another in the eye with the knowledge that we have behaved honourably and fairly.
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Let us so live in this trying time that when it is all over we can look one another in the eye with the knowledge that we have behaved honourably and fairly.
Everybody knows what God is,′ said his mother. ‘You feel what God is, don’t you?
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Everybody knows what God is,′ said his mother. ‘You feel what God is, don’t you?
For them it might stave off what he could not help but see with clarity: that the world was silent and cold and bare and that in this lay its terrible beauty.
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For them it might stave off what he could not help but see with clarity: that the world was silent and cold and bare and that in this lay its terrible beauty.
The place felt sinister, though. Your imagination can get the better of you where a road ends against a forest.
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The place felt sinister, though. Your imagination can get the better of you where a road ends against a forest.
He decided then that he would love her forever no matter what came to pass. It was not so much a matter of deciding as accepting the inevitability of it.
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He decided then that he would love her forever no matter what came to pass. It was not so much a matter of deciding as accepting the inevitability of it.
I have been trying to think clearly about everything and to use all this distance to advantage. And here is what I’ve discovered. I don’t love you, Ishmael.
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I have been trying to think clearly about everything and to use all this distance to advantage. And here is what I’ve discovered. I don’t love you, Ishmael.
I don’t feel anything either way. No feeling about it comes to me – it’s not something I have a choice about. Isn’t a feeling like that supposed to happen? I can’t make a feeling like that up, can I? Maybe God just chooses certain people, and the rest of us – we can’t feel Him.
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I don’t feel anything either way. No feeling about it comes to me – it’s not something I have a choice about. Isn’t a feeling like that supposed to happen? I can’t make a feeling like that up, can I? Maybe God just chooses certain people, and the rest of us – we can’t feel Him.
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