All people belong to a We except me. Not to belong to a We makes you too lonesome.
CARSON MCCULLERSOwing to the fact he was a mute they were able to give him all the qualities they wanted him to have.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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I have never gone to a doctor in my adult life, feeling instinctively that doctors meant either cutting or, just as bad, diet.
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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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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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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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What 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.
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Nothing is so musical as the sound of pouring bourbon for the first drink on a Sunday morning. Not Bach or Schubert or any of those masters.
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We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange.
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We wander, question. But the answer waits in each separate heart – the answer of our own identity and the way by which we can master loneliness and feel that at last we belong.
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This 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?
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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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Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.
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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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I’m not explaining this right. What happened was this. There were these beautiful feelings and loose little pleasures inside me. And this woman was something like an assembly line for my soul.
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The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.
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How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
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They are the we of me.
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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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When a person knows and can’t make the others understand, what does he do?
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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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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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There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
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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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It is music that causes the heart to broaden and the listener to grow cold with ecstasy and fright.
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It was like they waited to tell each other things that had never been told before. What she had to say was terrible and afraid. But what he would tell her was so true that it would make everything all right.
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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.
CARSON MCCULLERS