As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
CARSON MCCULLERSI got to wear blinders all the time so I won’t think sideways or in the past.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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justice itself is a chimera, a delusion. Justice is not a flat yardstick, applied in equal measure to an equal situation.
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Love of another individual opens a new relation between the personality and the world. The lover responds in a new way to nature and may even write poetry.
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This fear is one of the horrors of an author’s life. Where does work come from? What chance, what small episode will start the chain of creation?
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I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.
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Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.
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Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.
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The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
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I run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?
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I see a green tree. And to me it is green. And you would call the tree green also. And we would agree on this. But is the colour you see as green the same colour I see as green?
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I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
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A seed grows in writing as in nature. The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.
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Love is the main generator of all good writing… Love, passion, compassion, are all welded together.
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Wherever you look there’s meanness and corruption. This room, this bottle of grape wine, these fruits in the basket, are all products of profit and loss.
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You going to traipse all around like you haves to find something lost. You going to work yourself up with excitement. Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you don’t love and don’t have peace. And then some day you going to bust loose and be ruined.
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We wander, question. But the answer waits in each separate heart – the answer of our own identity and the way by which we can master loneliness and feel that at last we belong.
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The bewildered soul can answer only: “Since I do not understand ‘Who I am,’ I only know what I am not.” The corollary of this emotional incertitude is snobbism, intolerance and racial hate.
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The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.
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We no longer fear the age-old haunting questions: “Who am I?” “Why am I?” “Where am I going?” – and having cast out fear, we can be honest and charitable.
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His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.
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The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.
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All we can do is go around telling the truth.
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I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.
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There’s nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.
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But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.
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Coming down was the hardest part of any climbing.
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When a person knows and can’t make the others understand, what does he do?
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