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While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.

Carson McCullers

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Carson McCullers
Age: 50 †
Born: 1917
Born: February 19
Died: 1967
Died: September 29
Film Writer
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Writer
Columbus
Georgia
Lula Carson Smith
Carson McCullers
Idiot
Round
Endless
Running
Time
World
Screaming
Runs

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But no value has been put on human life it is given to us free and taken without being paid for. What is it worth? If you look around, at times the value may seem to be little or nothing at all. Often after you have sweated and tried and things are not better for you, there comes a feeling deep down in the soul that you are not worth much.
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There are all these people here I don't know by sight or by name. And we pass alongside each other and don't have any connection. And they don't know me and I don't know them. And now I'm leaving town and there are all these people I will never know.
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Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.
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Southerners are the more lonely and spiritually estranged, I think, because we have lived so long in an artificial social system that we insisted was natural and right and just - when all along we knew it wasn't.
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The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.
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Some men are heroes by nature in that they will give all that is in them without regard to the effort or to the personal returns.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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Coming down was the hardest part of any climbing.
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Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.
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Doctors, by God washing their hands, looking out windows, fiddling with dreadful things while you are stretched out on a table or half undressed on a chair.
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The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.
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We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
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Her face felt like it was scattered in pieces and she could not keep it straight. The feeling was a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it was like that. I want--I want--I want--was all that she could think about--but just what this real want was she did no know.
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I'm not explaining this right. What happened was this. There were these beautiful feelings and loose little pleasures inside me. And this woman was something like an assembly line for my soul. I run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?
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The world is certainty a sudden place.
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There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
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Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
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The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.
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The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.
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