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When I was a boy I first learned how much better water tastes when it has set a while in a cedar bucket. Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in Cedar trees smells.
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
Learned
Hot
Cedar
Water
Trees
Cedars
Better
Smell
Bucket
Firsts
Cool
Buckets
First
Taste
Smells
Much
Wind
Faint
Like
Boys
July
Tree
Tastes
More quotes by William Faulkner
Mississippi begins in a lobby of a Memphis, Tennessee hotel and extends south to the Gulf of Mexico
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Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.
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Let the past abolish the past when -- and if -- it can substitute something better.
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I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.
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The end of wisdom is to dream high enough to lose the dream in the seeking of it.
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She loved him not only in spite of but because he himself was incapable of love.
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When the switch fell I could feel it upon my flesh when it welted and ridged it was my blood that ran, and I would think with each blow of the switch: Now you are aware of me! Now I am something in your secret and selfish life, who have marked your blood with my own for ever and ever.
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The writer doesn't need economic freedom. All he needs is a pencil and some paper.
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I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, but since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better.
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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.
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I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.
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Man knows so little about his fellows. In his eyes all men or women act upon what he believes would motivate him if he were mad enough to do what the other man or woman is doing.
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It's the most satisfying occupation man has discovered yet, because you never can quite do it as well as you want to, so there's always something to wake up tomorrow morning to do.
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If I had not existed, someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, all of us.
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You like orchids?... Nasty things. Their flesh is too much like the flesh of men, their perfume has the rotten sweetness of corruption.
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How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.
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No man can write who is not first a humanitarian
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So vast, so limitless in capacity is man's imagination to disperse and burn away the rubble-dross of fact and probability, leaving only truth and dream.
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This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward.
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A man's moral conscience is the curse he had to accept from the gods in order to gain from them the right to dream.
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