Read, read, read. Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it.
WILLIAM FAULKNERNo man can cause more grief than that one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors.
More William Faulkner Quotes
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The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself
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 -
No man can cause more grief than that one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Women know more about words than men ever will. And they know how little they can ever possibly mean.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The next time you try to seduce anyone, don’t do it with talk, with words.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
I don’t want money badly enough to work for it.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
You could do so much for me if you just would. If you just knew. I am I and you are you and I know it and you don’t know it and you could do so much for me if you just would and if you just would then I could tell you and then nobody would have to know it except you and me.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Read, read read. Read everything.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Yes. A man will talk about how he’d like to escape from living folks. But it’s the dead folks that do him the damage. It’s the dead ones that lay quiet in one place and dont try to hold him, that he cant escape from.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Writing a first draft is like trying to build a house in a strong wind.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
War and drink are the two things man is never too poor to buy.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
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.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it’s still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon in 1863…
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The writer’s only responsibility is to his art.
WILLIAM FAULKNER