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And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. Like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to the day.

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
Else
Turned
Instantly
Dream
Dreams
Ashes
Certain
Color
Centuries
Would
Cold
Waking
Like
Century
Exposed
Rich
Dawn
Call
Suddenly
Death
Ancient
Entombed

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I think if you were Satan and you were settin around tryin to think up somethin that would just bring the human race to its knees what you would probably come up with is narcotics.
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... a man leaves much when he leaves his own country.
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There is no God and we are his prophets.
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It was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.
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If you dont respect me what must you think of yourself?
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It starts when you begin to overlook good manners. Any time you quit hearing Sir and Mam the end is pretty much in sight.
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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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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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He knew only that his child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.
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A dream inside a dream might not be a dream.
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Men have in their minds a picture of how the world will be. How they will be in that world. The world may be many different ways for them but there is one world that will never be and that is the world they dream of.
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There's hard lessons in this world. What's the hardest? I dont know. Maybe it's just that when things are gone they're gone. They aint comin back.
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He could not construct for the child's pleasure the world he'd lost without constructing the loss as well and he thought perhaps the child had known this better than he.
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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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You go back home and everything you wished was different is still the same and everything you wished was the same is different.
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At one time in the world there were woods that no one owned
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The martyr who longs for the flames can be no right candidate for them.
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Can you do it? When the time comes? When the time comes there will be no time. Now is the time. Curse God and die.
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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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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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