The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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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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Through the lies, she lived vicariously. The lies doubled the little of her existence that was left over from work and augmented the little rag end of her personal life.
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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
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the way i need you is a loneliness i cannot bear.
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The world is certainty a sudden place.
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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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The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.
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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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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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And in addition to this our country was founded on what should have been a great, true principle – the freedom, equality, and rights of each individual. Huh! And what has come of that start?
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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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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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All men are lonely. But sometimes it seems to me that we Americans are the loneliest of all. Our hunger for foreign places and new ways has been with us almost like a national disease. Our literature is stamped with a quality of longing and unrest, and our writers have been great wanderers.
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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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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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