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That which is destroying the Church is not the outward groping of those within it nor the inward groping of those without, but the professionals who control it and who have removed the bells from its steeples.
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
Bells
Inward
Destroying
Control
Steeples
Within
Groping
Church
Professionals
Without
Outward
Removed
More quotes by William Faulkner
I've got to feel the pencil and see the words at the end of the pencil.
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How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.
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Though children can accept adults as adults, adults can never accept children as anything but adults too.
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I don't want money badly enough to work for it.
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Poor man. Poor mankind.
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I don't know anything about inspiration because I don't know what inspiration is I've heard about it, but I never saw it.
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Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do.
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You must always know the past, for there is no real Was, there is only Is.
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The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.
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The writer in America isn't part of the culture of this country. He's like a fine dog. People like him around, but he's of no use.
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In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I don't know what I am. I don't know if I am or not.
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Our most treasured family heirloom are our sweet family memories. The past is never dead, it is not even past.
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Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by a conjunction of planets.
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It was like something you have dreaded and feared and dodged for years until it seemed like all your life, then despite everything it happened to you and all it was was just pain, all it did was hurt and so it was all over, all finished, all right.
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She was the captain of her soul
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They will endure. They are better than we are. Stronger than we are. Their vices are vices aped from white men or that white men and bondage have taught them: improvidence and intemperance and evasion-not laziness: evasion: of what white men had set them to, not for their aggrandizement or even comfort but his own.
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Who is he who will affirm that there must be a web of flesh and bone to hold the shape of love?
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Women do have an affinity for evil, for believing that no woman is to be trusted, but that some men are too innocent to protect themselves.
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To the man grown the long crowded mile of his boyhood becomes less than the throw of a stone.
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Living is one constant and perpetual instant when the arras-veil before what-is-to-be hangs docile and even glad to the lightest naked thrust if we had dared, were brave enough (not wise enough: no wisdom needed here) to make the rending gash.
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