All people belong to a We except me. Not to belong to a We makes you too lonesome.
CARSON MCCULLERSThere are corporations worth billions of dollars – and hundreds of thousands of people who don’t get to eat.
More Carson McCullers Quotes
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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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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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As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
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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 value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
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The writer is by nature a dreamer – a conscious dreamer.
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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.
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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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The heart of a hurt child can shrink so that forever afterward it is hard and pitted as the seed of a peach. Or again, the heart of such a child may fester and swell until it is a misery to carry within the body, easily chafed and hurt by the most ordinary things.
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The memories of childhood are like clear candles in an acre of night, illuminating fixed scenes from surrounding darkness.
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The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.
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I once wrote a story about a writer who could not write anymore, and my friend Tennessee Williams said, ‘How could you dare write that story, it’s the most frightening work I have ever read.’ I was pretty well sunk while I was writing it.
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Can you wonder it is so miserable? Do you know how men should love? A tree. A rock. A cloud.
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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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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.
CARSON MCCULLERS