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The voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such things as lives in silence themselves.

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
Speaks
Silence
Voice
Lives
Speak
Things
Profoundly
Almighty

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How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?
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What business is it of yours where I'm from, friendo?
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The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.
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There was a sharp crack from somewhere on the mountain. Then another. It's just a tree falling, he said. It's okay. The boy was looking at the dead roadside trees. It's okay, the man said. All the trees in the world are going to fall sooner or later. But not on us.
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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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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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Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.
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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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You are either born a writer or you are not.
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Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.
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A dream inside a dream might not be a dream.
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When the shooting starts would you rather be armed or legal?
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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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If only my heart were stone.
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The trouble with a liar is he can't remember what he said.
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Hell ain't half full.
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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 passing of armies and the passing of sands in the desert are one.
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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.
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You always pay too much. Particularly for promises. There aint no such thing as a bargain promise.
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