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In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise. But still he wandered through the streets of the town, always silent and alone.

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
Peace
Silent
Often
Streets
Stills
Wise
Pensive
Still
Seen
Wandered
Always
Alone
Sorrowful
Came
Brooding
Face
Town
Faces
Towns

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The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
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His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.
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Next to music beer was best.
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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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The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.
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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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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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We are homesick most for the places we have never known.
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There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
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The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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What are the sources of an illumination? To me, they come after hours of searching and keeping my soul ready. Yet they come in a flash, as a religious phenomenon. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter had such an illumination, beginning my long search for the truth of the story and flashing light into the long two years ahead.
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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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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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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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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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While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
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The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.
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I see a green tree. And to me it is green. And you would call the tree green also. And we would agree on this. But is the colour you see as green the same colour I see as green?
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The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.
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