Being human, she suffered from this lack and did what she could to make up for it. If she passed the evening bent over a table in the library and later declared that she had spent that time playing cards, it was as though she had managed to do both those things.
CARSON MCCULLERSThe music left only this bad hurt in her, and a blankness. She could not remember any of the symphony, not even the last few notes. She tried to remember, but no sound at all came to her. Now that it was over there was only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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We live in the richest country in the world. There’s plenty and to spare for no man, woman, or child to be in want.
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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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They are the we of me.
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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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I got to wear blinders all the time so I won’t think sideways or in the past.
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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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Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.
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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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The music left only this bad hurt in her, and a blankness. She could not remember any of the symphony, not even the last few notes. She tried to remember, but no sound at all came to her. Now that it was over there was only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.
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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 curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many.
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In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise. But still he wandered through the streets of the town, always silent and alone.
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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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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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You don’t know what it is to store up a lot of details and then come upon something real.
CARSON MCCULLERS