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.
CARSON MCCULLERSA 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.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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To know who you are, you have to have a place to come from.
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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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I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
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Wherever you look there’s meanness and corruption. This room, this bottle of grape wine, these fruits in the basket, are all products of profit and loss.
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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter had such an illumination, beginning my long search for the truth of the story and flashing light into the long two years ahead.
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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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Next to music beer was best.
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I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.
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the way i need you is a loneliness i cannot bear.
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Love is the main generator of all good writing… Love, passion, compassion, are all welded together.
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Writing, for me, is a search for God.
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Don’t you loathe it when doctors use the word ‘we’ when it applies only and solely to yourself?
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This was her, Mick Kelly, walking in the daytime and by herself at night. In the hot sun and in the dark with all the plans and feelings.
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Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.
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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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I´m a stranger in a strange land.
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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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For you see, when us people who know run into each other that’s an event. It almost never happens. Sometimes we meet each other and neither guesses that the other is one who knows. That’s a bad thing. It’s happened to me a lot of times. But you see there are so few of us.
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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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The writer must hew the phantom rock.
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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.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many.
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We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange.
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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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The writer by nature of his profession is a dreamer and a conscious dreamer. He must imagine, and imagination takes humility, love and great courage. How can you create a character without live and the struggle that goes with love?
CARSON MCCULLERS