I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…
WILLIAM FAULKNER
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More William Faulkner Quotes
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I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
If a story is in you, it has to come out.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The end of wisdom is to dream high enough to lose the dream in the seeking of it.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
Our most treasured family heirloom are our sweet family memories.
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 -
Don’t do what you can do – try what you can’t do.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
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I have found that the greatest help in meeting any problem with decency and self-respect and whatever courage is demanded, is to know where you yourself stand. That is, to have in words what you believe and are acting from.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
And sure enough, even waiting will end…if you can just wait long enough.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
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.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The past is never dead. It’s not even past. All of us labor in webs spun long before we were born, webs of heredity and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
As long as I live under the capitalistic system I expect to have my life influenced by the demands of moneyed people.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction.
WILLIAM FAULKNER -
The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.
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