I began to ration my writing, for fear I would dream through life as my father had done. I was afraid I had inherited a poisoned gene from him, a vocation without a gift.
– Mavis Gallant
My father had spent his own short time like a priest in charge of a relic, forever expecting the blessed blood to liquefy.
– Mavis Gallant
She had the loaded handbag of someone who camps out and seldom goes home, or who imagines life must be full of emergencies.