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War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god.

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
Game
Existence
Games
Lasts
Last
War
Forcing
Unity
Ultimate

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If people knew the story of their lives, how many would then elect to live them?
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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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The voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such things as lives in silence themselves.
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The way of the world is to bloom and to flower and die but in the affairs of men there is no waning and the noon of his expression signals the onset of night. His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.
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What man is such a coward he would not rather fall once than remain forever tottering?
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If one were to be a person of value that value could not be a condition subject to hazards of fortune. It had to be a quality that could not change. No matter what.
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He spoke of his campaigns in the deserts of Mexico and he told them of horses killed under him and he said that the souls of horses mirror the souls of men more closely than men suppose and that horses also love war. Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to holo
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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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in dreams it is often the case that the greatest extravagances seem bereft of their power to astonish and the most improbable chimeras seem commonplace.
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The wind sounded of Mother Earth's forsaken and abandoned cries.
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Do you know what happens with people who cannot govern themselves? That's right. Others come in to govern for them.
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The passing of armies and the passing of sands in the desert are one.
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What business is it of yours where I'm from, friendo?
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It's the tide. It's the dismal tide. It's not the one thing.
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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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Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering.
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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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The point is there ain't no point.
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Hell ain't half full.
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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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