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.
CARSON MCCULLERSI have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.
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There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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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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Love is the bridge that leads from the I sense to the We, and there is a paradox about personal love.
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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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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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You going to traipse all around like you haves to find something lost. You going to work yourself up with excitement. Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you don’t love and don’t have peace. And then some day you going to bust loose and be ruined.
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Love is the main generator of all good writing… Love, passion, compassion, are all welded together.
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I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
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The writer is by nature a dreamer – a conscious dreamer.
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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 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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There’s nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.
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Love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved.
CARSON MCCULLERS