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Maybe. Anyway, some men get what they want. No man. Or perhaps only briefly so as to lose it. Or perhaps only to prove to the dreamer that the world of his longing made real is no longer that world at all.

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
Loses
Briefly
Maybe
Dreamer
Real
Longing
Made
Anyway
Men
Prove
World
Perhaps
Longer
Lose

More quotes by Cormac McCarthy

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The things that I loved were very frail. Very fragile. I didn't know that. I thought they were indestructible. They weren't.
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I felt early on I wasn't going to be a respectable citizen.
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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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Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.
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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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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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Any time you're throwin dirt you're losin ground.
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They say death comes like a thief in the night, where is he? I'll hug his neck.
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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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It's the tide. It's the dismal tide. It's not the one thing.
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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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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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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 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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Yet it is the narrative that is the life of the dream while the events themselves are often interchangeable. The events of the waking world on the other hand are forced upon us and the narrative is the unguessed axis along which they must be strung.
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It may be that the life I desire for her no longer even exists, yet I know what she does not. That there is nothing to lose.
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The wind sounded of Mother Earth's forsaken and abandoned cries.
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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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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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They were watching, out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.
Cormac McCarthy