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The writer by nature of his profession is a dreamer and a conscious dreamer. He must imagine, and imagination takes humility, love and great courage. How can you create a character without live and the struggle that goes with love?

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
Humility
Love
Imagination
Conscious
Imagine
Courage
Nature
Writer
Character
Goes
Live
Without
Struggle
Dreamer
Must
Takes
Profession
Great
Create

More quotes by Carson McCullers

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Love is the main generator of all good writing... Love, passion, compassion, are all welded together.
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The Heart is a lonely hunter with only one desire! To find some lasting comfort in the arms of anothers fire...driven by a desperate hunger to the arms of a neon light, the heart is a lonely hunter when there's no sign of love in sight!
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There is so much truth in children and so little self-consciousness. It always strikes me that they are so capable of losing and finding themselves and also losing and finding those things they feel close to.
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I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.
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But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.
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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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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
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The music left only this bad hurt in her, and a blankness. She could not remember any of the symphony, not even the last few notes. She tried to remember, but no sound at all came to her. Now that it was over there was only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.
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I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?
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How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
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I think we look for the differences in people because it makes us less lonely.
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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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Sometimes this fellow's music was like little colored pieces of crystal candy, and other times it was the softest, saddest thing she had ever imagined about.
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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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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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Comparing the Brooklyn that I know with Manhattan is like comparing a comfortable and complacent duenna to her more brilliant and neurotic sister.
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There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.
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But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.
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The memories of childhood have a strange shuttling quality, and areas of darkness ring the spaces of light. The memories of childhood are like clear candles in an acre of night, illuminating fixed scenes from surrounding darkness.
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