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His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

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
Years
Amidst
Life
Column
Columns
Supporting
Solitary
Fragile
Seemed
Nothing
Wreckage

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There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.
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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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Love is a joint experience between two persons -- but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved.
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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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Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.
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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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She was afraid of these things that made her suddenly wonder who she was, and what she was going to be in the world, and why she was standing at that minute, seeing a light, or listening, or staring up into the sky: alone.
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Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.
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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 human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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A writer soon discovers he has no single identity but lives the lives of all the people he creates and his weathers are independent of the actual day around him. I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.
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When a person knows and can't make the others understand, what does he do?
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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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And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many.
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A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lillies of the swamp.
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We are homesick most for the places we have never known.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
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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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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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