Whatever its symbol – cross or crescent or whatever – that symbol is man’s reminder of his duty inside the human race.
WILLIAM FAULKNERI never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.
More William Faulkner Quotes
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To live anywhere in the world today and be against equality because of race or color is like living in Alaska and being against snow.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Like a fellow running from or toward a gun ain’t got time to worry whether the word for what he is doing is courage or cowardice.
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People need trouble – a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it.
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I think that no one individual can look at truth. It blinds you. You look at it and you see one phase of it.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Nothing can destroy the good writer. The only thing that can alter the good writer is death.
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Pouring out liquor is like burning books.
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Love doesn’t die; the men and women do.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
And sure enough, even waiting will end…if you can just wait long enough.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
One of the saddest things is that the only thing that a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can’t eat…nor make love for eight hours…
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Don’t do what you can do – try what you can’t do.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the base of our splendid failure to do the impossible.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.
WILLIAM FAULKNER