I meditated on love and reasoned it out. I realized what is wrong with us. Men fall in love for the first time. And what do they fall in love with? …They fall in love with a woman. They start at the wrong end of love. They begin at the climax.
CARSON MCCULLERSDay and night she had drudged and struggled and thrown her soul into her work, and there was not much of her left over for anything else.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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Can you wonder it is so miserable? Do you know how men should love? A tree. A rock. A cloud.
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Writing, for me, is a search for God.
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When a person knows and can’t make the others understand, what does he do?
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A writer soon discovers he has no single identity but lives the lives of all the people he creates and his weathers are independent of the actual day around him.
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For in a swift radiance of illumination he saw a glimpse of human struggle and valor. Of the endless fluid passage of the humanity through endless time. And of those who labor and of those who – one word- love. His soul expanded. But for a moment only. For in him, he felt a warning, a shaft of terror.
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Day and night she had drudged and struggled and thrown her soul into her work, and there was not much of her left over for anything else.
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To find some lasting comfort in the arms of anothers fire…driven by a desperate hunger to the arms of a neon light, the heart is a lonely hunter when there’s no sign of love in sight!
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Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
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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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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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Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.
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But no value has been put on human life; it is given to us free and taken without being paid for. What is it worth?
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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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The writer must hew the phantom rock.
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A 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.
CARSON MCCULLERS