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How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.
William Faulkner
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William Faulkner
Age: 64 †
Born: 1897
Born: September 25
Died: 1962
Died: July 6
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
New Albany
Mississippi
William Cuthbert Faulkner
William Falkner
William Cuthbert Falkner
Roof
Beneath
Rain
Strange
Often
Home
Thinking
Lain
Nostalgia
More quotes by William Faulkner
It used to be I thought of death as a man something like Grandfather a friend of his a kind of private and particular friend like we used to think of Grandfather's desk not to touch it not even to talk loud in the room where it was.
William Faulkner
It is my ambition to be, as a private individual, abolished and voided from history, leaving it markless.
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She clung to that which had robbed her, as people do.
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An artist is completely amoral in that he will rob, beg, borrow, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.
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Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do.
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And sure enough, even waiting will end...if you can just wait long enough.
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Gratitude is a quality similar to electricity: it must be produced and discharged and used up in order to exist at all.
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Hemingway shot himself. I don't like a man that takes the short way home.
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Be scared. You can't help that. But don't be afraid.
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The books I read are the ones I knew and loved when I was a young man and to which I return as you do to old friends.
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The writer doesn't need economic freedom. All he needs is a pencil and some paper.
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It wasn't until the Nobel Prize that they really thawed out. They couldn't understand my books, but they could understand $30,000.
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Unless you're ashamed of yourself now and then, you're not honest
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Surely there is something in madness, even the demoniac, which Satan flees, aghast at his own handiwork, and which God looks on in pity.
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For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two o'clock on that July afternoon in 1863...
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What's wrong with this world is, it's not finished yet. It is not completed to that point where man can put his final signature to the job and say, It is finished. We made it, and it works.
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I knew that nobody but a luckless man could ever need a doctor in the face of a cyclone.
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A mule will labor ten years willingly and patiently for you, for the privilege of kicking you once.
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Necessity has a way of obliterating from our conduct various delicate scruples regarding honor and pride.
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Now she hates me. I have taught her that, at least.
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