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Coming down was the hardest part of any climbing.

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
Climbing
Hardest
Coming
Part

More quotes by Carson McCullers

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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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I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.
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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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While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
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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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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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How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
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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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But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.
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Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
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