I see a green tree. And to me it is green. And you would call the tree green also. And we would agree on this. But is the colour you see as green the same colour I see as green?
CARSON MCCULLERSThe most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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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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The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as ever. And by habit they shortened their thoughts so that they would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow.
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I´m a stranger in a strange land.
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It is music that causes the heart to broaden and the listener to grow cold with ecstasy and fright.
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Maybe it was a thing that could not be spoken with words or writing. Maybe he would have to let her understand this in a different way. That was the feeling she had with him.
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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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A fellow can’t live without giving his passive acceptance to meanness. Somebody wears his tail to a frazzle for every mouthful we eat and every stitch we wear-and nobody seems to know. Everybody is blind, dumb, and blunt-headed-stupid and mean.
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The trouble with me is that for a long time I have just been an I person.
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People, unless they are nilly-willy or very sick, cannot be taken into the hands and be changed overnight into somthing more worth-while and profitable.
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All people belong to a We except me. Not to belong to a We makes you too lonesome.
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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?
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The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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It was better to be in a jail where you could bang the walls than in a jail you could not see.
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The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.
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A 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.
CARSON MCCULLERS