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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

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
Heart
Hunter
Hunters
Lonely

More quotes by Carson McCullers

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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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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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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 do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?
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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'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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There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
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Coming down was the hardest part of any climbing.
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The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.
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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 writer must hew the phantom rock.
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I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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Next to music beer was best.
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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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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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The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.
Carson McCullers
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While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
Carson McCullers
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But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.
Carson McCullers
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The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
Carson McCullers