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Nothing is so musical as the sound of pouring bourbon for the first drink on a Sunday morning. Not Bach or Schubert or any of those masters.

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
Sunday
First
Musical
Masters
Drink
Schubert
Morning
Bourbon
Sound
Bach
Firsts
Pouring
Nothing

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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?
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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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How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
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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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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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And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many.
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The theme is the theme of humiliation, which is the square root of sin, as opposed to the freedom from humiliation, and love, which is the square root of wonderful.
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Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.
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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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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
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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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The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.
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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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There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
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There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.
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While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
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The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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