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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?

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
Call
Also
Would
Colour
Perception
Agree
Green
Tree

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There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.
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Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
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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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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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Passion is more important than justice.
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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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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?
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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 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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Coming down was the hardest part of any climbing.
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The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.
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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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I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.
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There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
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But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.
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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.
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The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.
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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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