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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.

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
Please
Hold
Dead
Thought
Take
Papa
Cant
Son
Arms

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It's the tide. It's the dismal tide. It's not the one thing.
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When I came into your life your life was over. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. This is the end. You can say that things could have turned out differently. That they could have been some other way. But what does that mean? They are not some other way. They are this way.
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For things at a common destination there is a common path. Not always easy to see. But there.
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I got what I needed instead of what I wanted and that's just about the best kind of luck you can have.
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Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering.
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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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Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to hold.
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If people knew the story of their lives, how many would then elect to live them?
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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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You keep runnin that mouth and I'm goin to take you back there and screw you.
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There is no later. This is later.
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Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.
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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.
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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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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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Your god must once have stood at a dawn of infinite possibilities, and this is what he's made of it. You tell me that I want God's love? I don't. Perhaps I want forgiveness, but there's no-one to ask it of. And there's no going back, there's no setting things right, there's only the hope of nothingness.
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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 looks a lot better from up here than it does down there, dont it? Yes. It does. There's a lot of things look better at a distance. Yeah? I think so. I guess there are. The life you've lived, for one. Yeah. Maybe what of it you aint lived yet, too.
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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 poured the tumbler full. Drink up, he said. The world goes on. We have dancing nightly and this night is no exception. The straight and the winding way are one and now that you are here what do the years count since last we two met together? Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.
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