The world is certainty a sudden place.
CARSON MCCULLERSThe lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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Comparing the Brooklyn that I know with Manhattan is like comparing a comfortable and complacent duenna to her more brilliant and neurotic sister.
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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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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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Don’t you loathe it when doctors use the word ‘we’ when it applies only and solely to yourself?
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And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many.
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The whole world was this symphony, and there was not enough of her to listen… Now that it was over there was only her heart beating like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.
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This was her, Mick Kelly, walking in the daytime and by herself at night. In the hot sun and in the dark with all the plans and feelings.
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I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
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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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If you look around, at times the value may seem to be little or nothing at all. Often after you have sweated and tried and things are not better for you, there comes a feeling deep down in the soul that you are not worth much.
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To know who you are, you have to have a place to come from.
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The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many.
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This music was her-the real plain her…This music did not take a long time or a short time. It did not have anything to do with time going by at all. She sat with her arms around her legs, biting her salty knee very hard.
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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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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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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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The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
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justice itself is a chimera, a delusion. Justice is not a flat yardstick, applied in equal measure to an equal situation.
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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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But you haven’t never loved God nor even nair person. You hard and tough as cowhide. But just the same I knows you. This afternoon you going to roam all over the place without never being satisfied.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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They are the we of me.
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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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There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
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I want – I want – I want – was all that she could think about – but just what this real want was she did not know.
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