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.
CARSON MCCULLERSA most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lillies of the swamp.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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I´m a stranger in a strange land.
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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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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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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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Through the lies, she lived vicariously. The lies doubled the little of her existence that was left over from work and augmented the little rag end of her personal life.
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What are the sources of an illumination? To me, they come after hours of searching and keeping my soul ready. Yet they come in a flash, as a religious phenomenon.
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There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
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The heart of a hurt child can shrink so that forever afterward it is hard and pitted as the seed of a peach. Or again, the heart of such a child may fester and swell until it is a misery to carry within the body, easily chafed and hurt by the most ordinary things.
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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.
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Owing to the fact he was a mute they were able to give him all the qualities they wanted him to have.
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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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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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The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many.
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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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This music was her-the real plain her…This music did not take a long time or a short time. It did not have anything to do with time going by at all. She sat with her arms around her legs, biting her salty knee very hard.
CARSON MCCULLERS