She was bored. She loved, had capacity to love, for love, to give and accept love.
WILLIAM FAULKNERI think now that the young man must possess or teach himself, training himself, in infinite patience, which is to try and to try until it comes right.
More William Faulkner Quotes
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If you, not just you in this room tonight, but in all the thousands of other rooms like this one about the world today and tomorrow and next week, will do this, not as a class or classes, but as individuals, men and women, you will change the earth.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Whatever its symbol – cross or crescent or whatever – that symbol is man’s reminder of his duty inside the human race.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
No matter how young you are or how old you have got. Not for kudos and not for cash: your picture in the paper nor money in the back either. Just refuse to bear them.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
I love Virginians because Virginians are all snobs and I like snobs. A snob has to spend so much time being a snob that he has little time left to meddle with you.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
I say money has no value; it’s just the way you spend it.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Nothing can destroy the good writer. The only thing that can alter the good writer is death.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
If a story is in you, it has to come out.
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 don’t love because: you love despite; not for the virtues, but despite the faults.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Wonder. Go on and wonder.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
People need trouble – a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
And sure enough, even waiting will end…if you can just wait long enough.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself
WILLIAM FAULKNER