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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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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
Unconscious
Seeds
Labor
Goes
Struggle
Idea
Ideas
Seed
Developed

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The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
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While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
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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 no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
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I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.
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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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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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But look what the Church has done to Jesus during the last two thousand years. What they have made of Him. How they have turned every word He spoke for their own vile ends. Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.
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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 writer must hew the phantom rock.
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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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And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many.
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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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But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.
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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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I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?
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There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.
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The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.
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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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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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