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.
CARSON MCCULLERSA fellow can’t live without giving his passive acceptance to meanness. Somebody wears his tail to a frazzle for every mouthful we eat and every stitch we wear-and nobody seems to know. Everybody is blind, dumb, and blunt-headed-stupid and mean.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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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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I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.
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Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
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Nothing is so musical as the sound of pouring bourbon for the first drink on a Sunday morning. Not Bach or Schubert or any of those masters.
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Southerners are the more lonely and spiritually estranged, I think, because we have lived so long in an artificial social system that we insisted was natural and right and just – when all along we knew it wasn’t.
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The xenophobic individual can only reject and destroy, as the xenophobic nation inevitably makes war.
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Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.
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Love is affirmation; it motivates the yes responses and the sense of wider communication. Love casts out fear, and in the security of this togetherness we find contentment, courage.
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Sometimes this fellow’s music was like little colored pieces of crystal candy, and other times it was the softest, saddest thing she had ever imagined about.
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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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The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many.
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The memories of childhood have a strange shuttling quality, and areas of darkness ring the spaces of light.
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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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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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The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
CARSON MCCULLERS