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She smiled. I think it's just the snow. I think it makes people stop and think. Bell nodded. I hope it comes a blizzard then.

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
Comes
Blizzard
Makes
Nodded
Think
Bell
Thinking
Smiled
People
Bells
Snow
Stop
Hope

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He said that whether a man's life was writ in a book someplace or whether it took its form day by day was one and the same for it had but one reality and that was the living of it.
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The freedom of birds is an insult to me.
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The rain falls upon the just And also on the unjust fellas But mostly it falls upon the just Cause the unjust have the just's umbrellas
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You have my whole heart. You always did.
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No one can tell you what your life is goin to be, can they? No. It's never like what you expected. Quijada nodded. If people knew the story of their lives how many would then elect to live them?
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The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.
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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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Usually, you don't know where a book comes from ... it's just there, some kind of an itch that you can't quite scratch.
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How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?
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The trouble with a liar is he can't remember what he said.
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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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The world could only be known as it existed in men's hearts. For while it seemed a place which contained men it was in reality a place contained within them.
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In his dream she was sick and he cared for her. The dream bore the look of sacrifice but he thought differently. He did not take care of her and she died alone somewhere in the dark and there is no other dream nor other waking world and there is no other tale to tell.
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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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You always pay too much. Particularly for promises. There aint no such thing as a bargain promise.
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Just take me with you. Please. I cant. Please, Papa. I cant. I cant hold my son dead in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
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It was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.
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How surely are the dead beyond death. Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it.
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Do you have any notion of how goddamned crazy you are?
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It's the tide. It's the dismal tide. It's not the one thing.
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