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The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.

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
Reality
Dream
Even
World
Selecting
Ruthless
Quite

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Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering.
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The judge placed his hands on the ground. He looked at his inquisitor. This is my claim, he said. And yet everywhere upon it are pockets of autonomous life. Autonomous. In order for it to be mine nothing must be permitted to occur upon it save by my dispensation.
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Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.
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When one has nothing left make ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.
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I think by the time you're grown you're as happy as you're goin to be. You'll have good times and bad times, but in the end you'll be about as happy as you was before. Or as unhappy. I've knowed people that just never did get the hang of it.
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This country was filled with violent children orphaned by war.
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If you think about some of the things that are being talked about by thoughtful, intelligent scientists, you realize that in 100 years the human race won't even be recognizable.
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All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage.
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Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.
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Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.
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You always pay too much. Particularly for promises. There aint no such thing as a bargain promise.
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There is no such joy in the tavern as upon the road thereto.
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Looking over the country with those sunken eyes as if the world out there had been altered or made suspect by what he'd seen of it elsewhere. As if he might never see it right again. Or worse did see it right at last. See it as it had always been, would forever be.
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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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But I didn't know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?
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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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Scared money can’t win and a worried man can’t love.
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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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He sat a long time and he thought about his life and how little of it he could ever have foreseen and he wondered for all his will and all his intent how much of it was his doing.
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She looked up at him and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and he could see her throat move in the light and he saw in her face and in her figure something he'd not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow.
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