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On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.

Cormac McCarthy

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Cormac McCarthy
Age: 91
Born: 1933
Born: July 20
Novelist
Playwright
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Providence
Rhode Island
Charles McCarthy
Road
Taken
Gone
Left
Men
World

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If one were to be a person of value that value could not be a condition subject to hazards of fortune. It had to be a quality that could not change. No matter what.
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It takes very little to govern good people. Very little. And bad people cant be governed at all. Or if they could I never heard of it.
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It was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.
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You are either born a writer or you are not.
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Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.
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Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.
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Words pale and lose their savor while pain is always new.
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The things that I loved were very frail. Very fragile. I didn't know that. I thought they were indestructible. They weren't.
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The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.
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He spoke of his campaigns in the deserts of Mexico and he told them of horses killed under him and he said that the souls of horses mirror the souls of men more closely than men suppose and that horses also love war. Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to holo
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They were watching, out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.
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No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.
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She was gone and the coldness of it was her final gift.
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This country was filled with violent children orphaned by war.
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In the spring or warmer weather when the snow thaws in the woods the tracks of winter reappear on slender pedestals and the snow reveals in palimpsest old buried wanderings, struggles, scenes of death. Tales of winter brought to light again like time turned back upon itself.
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All the time you spend tryin to get back what's been took from you there's more goin out the door. After a while you just try and get a tourniquet on it.
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In history there are no control groups. There is no one to tell us what might have been. We weep over the might have been, but there is no might have been. There never was.
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It may be that the life I desire for her no longer even exists, yet I know what she does not. That there is nothing to lose.
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It makes no difference what men think of war, said the judge. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.
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Acts have their being in the witness. Without him who can speak of it? In the end one could even say that the act is nothing, the witness all.
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