Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist’s way of scribbling “Kilroy was here” on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass.
WILLIAM FAULKNERYou get born and you try this and you don’t know why, only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people.
More William Faulkner Quotes
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Civilization begins with distillation
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The ideal woman which is in every man’s mind is evoked by a word or phrase or the shape of her wrist, her hand.
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A man is the sum of his misfortunes.
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No battle is ever won … victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
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I believe man will not merely endure, he will prevail…because he has a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.
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Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.
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I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why.
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Believe that man will not merely endure; he will prevail.
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A fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he’s already got. He’ll cling to trouble he’s used to before he’ll risk a change.
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Someone else looks at it and sees a slightly awry phase of it. But taken all together, the truth is in what they saw though nobody saw the truth intact.
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A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others.
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Remember, all Tolstoy ever said to describe Anna Karenina was that she was beautiful and could see in the dark like a cat. Every man has a different idea of what’s beautiful, and it’s best to take the gesture, the shadow of the branch, and let the mind create the tree.
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All l mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings, only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs and the others all trying and they don’t know why either except that the strings are all in one another’s way.
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The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself
WILLIAM FAULKNER