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Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.

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
Migrants
Shells
Men
Like
Tottering

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This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.
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Where men can't live gods fare no better.
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Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.
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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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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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The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.
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The trouble with a liar is he can't remember what he said.
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He believed in God even if he was doubtful of men's claims to know God's mind. But that a God unable to forgive was no God at all.
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The wind sounded of Mother Earth's forsaken and abandoned cries.
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She was gone and the coldness of it was her final gift.
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Word gets around when the circus comes to town, don't it?
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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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Any time you're throwin dirt you're losin ground.
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On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.
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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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Men believe death's elections to be a thing inscrutable yet every act invites the act which follows and to the extent that men put one foot before the other they are accomplices in their own deaths as in all such facts of destiny.
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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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The passing of armies and the passing of sands in the desert are one.
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It was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.
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Words pale and lose their savor while pain is always new.
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