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

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They spoke less and less between them until at last they were silent altogether as is often the way with travelers approaching the end of a journey.
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There is no forgiveness. For women. A man may lose his honor and regain it again. But a woman cannot. She cannot.
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This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.
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The cooler days have brought a wistful mood upon him. The smell of coalsmoke in the air at night. Old times, dead years. For him such memories are bitter ones.
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The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad? What do you think? Well, I think we're still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we're still here. Yeah. You don't think that's so great. It's okay.
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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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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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If you dont respect me what must you think of yourself?
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... a man leaves much when he leaves his own country.
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You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don't count. But yesterday is all that does count. What else is there? Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else.
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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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You keep runnin that mouth and I'm goin to take you back there and screw you.
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If the rule you followed brought you to this, of what use was the rule?
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I felt early on I wasn't going to be a respectable citizen.
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He thought that in the history of the world it might even be that there was more punishment than crime but he took small comfort from it.
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It is supposed to true that those who do not know history are condemned to repeat it. I don't believe knowing can save us. What is constant in history is greed and foolishness and love of blood.
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If there's one thing on this planet you don't look like it's a bunch of good luck walkin around.
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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.
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The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes.
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