Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons–throw it to some human being or some human idea. They have to.
CARSON MCCULLERSI was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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The whole world was this symphony, and there was not enough of her to listen… Now that it was over there was only her heart beating like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.
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It was like they waited to tell each other things that had never been told before. What she had to say was terrible and afraid. But what he would tell her was so true that it would make everything all right.
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The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.
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How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
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There are corporations worth billions of dollars – and hundreds of thousands of people who don’t get to eat.
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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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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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After the first establishment of identity there comes the imperative need to lose this new-found sense of separateness and to belong to something larger and more powerful than the weak, lonely self. The sense of moral isolation is intolerable to us.
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The xenophobic individual can only reject and destroy, as the xenophobic nation inevitably makes war.
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When a person knows and can’t make the others understand, what does he do?
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Love is the bridge that leads from the I sense to the We, and there is a paradox about personal love.
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You don’t know what it is to store up a lot of details and then come upon something real.
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Doctors, by God; washing their hands, looking out windows, fiddling with dreadful things while you are stretched out on a table or half undressed on a chair.
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The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.
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She was afraid of these things that made her suddenly wonder who she was, and what she was going to be in the world, and why she was standing at that minute, seeing a light, or listening, or staring up into the sky: alone.
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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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The dimensions of a work of art are seldom realized by the author until the work is accomplished. It is like a flowering dream. Ideas grow, budding silently, and there are a thousand illuminations coming day by day as the work progresses.
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Next to music beer was best.
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We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange.
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I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.
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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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As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
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I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
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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 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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I want – I want – I want – was all that she could think about – but just what this real want was she did not know.
CARSON MCCULLERS