Quote

Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.

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
Would
Waste
Ceasing
World
Perhaps
Oceans
Silence
Sweeping
Possible
Secular
Lasts
Mountains
Last
Destruction
Made
Mountain
Ponderous
Things
Ocean
Coldly

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My daddy always told me to just do the best you knew how and tell the truth. He said there was nothin to set a man’s mind at ease like wakin up in the morning and not havin to decide who you were. And if you done somethin wrong just stand up and say you done it and say you’re sorry and get on with it. Don’t haul stuff around with you.
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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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You are either born a writer or you are not.
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We think we are the victims of time. In reality, the way of the world isn't fixed anywhere. How could that be possible? We are our own journey. And therefore we are time as well. We are the same. Fugitive. Inscrutable. Ruthless.
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The freedom of birds is an insult to me.
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People think they know what they want but they generally don't. Sometimes if they're lucky they'll get it anyways.
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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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Choose your enemies carefully 'cause they will define you Make them interesting 'cause in some ways they will mind you They're not there in the beginning but when your story ends Gonna last with you longer than your friend
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Hard weather, says the old man. So let it be. Wrap me in the weathers of the earth, I will be hard and hard. My face will wash rain like the stones.
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Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering.
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This is my child, he said. I wash a dead man's brains out of his hair. That is my job.
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If people knew the story of their lives, how many would then elect to live them?
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War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.
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War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god.
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If only my heart were stone.
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How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?
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He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought that the world’s heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world’s pain and its beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.
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The martyr who longs for the flames can be no right candidate for them.
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So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall.
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The point is there ain't no point.
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