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.
CARSON MCCULLERSWherever 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.
CARSON MCCULLERSSometimes 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.
CARSON MCCULLERSWe are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange.
CARSON MCCULLERSI must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
CARSON MCCULLERSWhat 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.
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.
CARSON MCCULLERSThe seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.
CARSON MCCULLERSThe 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 MCCULLERSI got to wear blinders all the time so I won’t think sideways or in the past.
CARSON MCCULLERSJesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.
CARSON MCCULLERSThis fear is one of the horrors of an author’s life. Where does work come from? What chance, what small episode will start the chain of creation?
CARSON MCCULLERSShe 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.
CARSON MCCULLERSThe beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved.
CARSON MCCULLERSThere is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
CARSON MCCULLERSI run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?
CARSON MCCULLERSHis own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.
CARSON MCCULLERS