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Alexandra Fuller Biography

Alexandra Fuller

Alexandra Fuller (born 1969) is an author who currently lives in the U.S. state of Wyoming.

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Alexandra Fuller Quotes

I had the constitution of a missionary.

Constitution, Health, Missionary

What is important is the story. Because when we are all dust and teeth and kicked-up bits of skin - when we're dancing with our own skeletons - our words might be all that's left of us.

Dust, Skeletons, Skin, Words, Writing

I love my mother so much, because I see the whole of her.

I Love My Mother, Mother, See, Whole

I am becoming increasingly difficult to please as a reader, but I adore being surprised by a really wonderful book, written by someone I've never heard of before.

Becoming, Book, Heard, Reader, Wonderful

Until I read Anne Frank's diary, I had found books a literal escape from what could be the harsh reality around me. After I read the diary, I had a fresh way of viewing the both literature and the world. From then on, I found I was impatient with books that were not honest or that were trivial and frivolous.

Book, Books, Diaries, Literature, Reality, World

In ways I don't entirely have the words for, an experience, thought or a lesson isn't real for me until I've written down.

Experience, Lessons, Real, Way, Words

You can't rewind war. It spools on, and on, and on, looping and jumping, distorted and cracked with age, and the stories contract until only the nuggets of hatred remain and no one can even remember, or imagine, why the war was organized in the first place.

Age, Hatred, Jumping, Spools, War

Once, I discovered the skulls of two impala rams, their horns locked into an irreversible figure-of-eight; the two animals had been trapped in combat, latched to each other during the battle of the rut. The harder they had pulled to escape from each other, the more intractably stuck they were, until they had fallen exhausted, to their knees, in an embrace of hatred that had killed them both.

Animal, Embrace, Escape, Hatred, Skulls, Two

This is not a full circle. It's life carrying on. It's the next breath we all take. It's the choice we make to get on with it.

Carrying, Choices, Circles, Full Circle, Life, Make

How you see a country depends on whether you are driving through it, or live in it. How you see a country depends on whether or not you can leave it, if you have to.

Country, Depends, Driving, Live, See

It's a long day's drive any way you look at it. With a man who has taken your sins - real and imagined - and stitched them onto the sackcloth of his own soul, it is endless.

Imagined, Long, Men, Real, Soul, Taken

I always knew mum loved me - tough, look-after-yourself love, as if she knew she wouldn't always be there.

Looks, Love, Mum, Self Love, Tough

The rains are rhythmic, coming religiously in the afternoons (after lunch has been eaten but before tea, so that the nights are washed clean-black with bright pinpoints of silver starlight hanging over a restless, grateful earth).

Coming, Earth, Grateful, Night, Pinpoints, Rain

The land itself, of course, was careless of its name. It still is. You can call it what you like, fight all the wars you want in its name. Change its name altogether if you like. The land is still unblinking under the African sky. It will absorb white man's blood and the blood of African men, it will absorb blood from slaughtered cattle and the blood from a woman's birthing with equal thirst. It doesn't care.

Altogether, Fighting, Men, War, Wars, White

One of the things about being raised British in Africa is that you get this double whammy of toughness. The continent in place itself made you quite tough. And then you've got this British mother whose entire being rejects 'coddling' in case it makes you too soft. So there's absolutely nothing standing between you and a fairly rough experience.

British, Double, Experience, Mother, Self Made, Tough

You learn not to mourn every little thing out here, or you’d never, ever stop grieving.

Grief, Grieving, Littles, Stop, Thing

There's a point at which writing a book, or a long article, begins to feel like mental labor, and it's too painful to connect in the world in any real way mid-process. The only way to survive is to write until it is all said and done.

Book, Like, Painful, Real, Writing