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All men are just accumulations dolls stuffed with sawdust swept up from the trash heaps where all previous dolls had been thrown away.

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
Dolls
Accumulation
Previous
Trash
Accumulations
Thrown
Sawdust
Away
Heaps
Men
Stuffed
Swept

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A man never gets anywhere if facts and his ledgers don't square.
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A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction.
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Most men are a little better than their circumstances give them a chance to be.
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You have to write badly in order to write well.
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They say that it is the practiced liar who can deceive. But so often the practiced and chronic liar deceives only himself it is the man who all his life has been selfconvicted of veracity whose lies find quickest credence.
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I think that-that anyone, the painter, the musician, the writer works in a-a kind of an-an insane fury. He's demon-driven. He can get up feeling rotten, with a hangover, or with-with actual pain, and-and if he gets to work, the first thing he knows, he don't remember that pain, that hangover-he's too busy.
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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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A man or a race either if he's any good can survive his past without even needing to escape from it and not because of the high quite often only too rhetorical rhetoric of humanity but for the simple indubitable practical reason of his future: that capacity to survive and absorb and endure and still be steadfast.
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We could live like counts. ... If all that money is out there, I might as well hack a little on the side and put the novel off.
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I draw no petty social lines. A man to me is a man, wherever I find him.
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Only when the clock stops does time come to life
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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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She was bored. She loved, had capacity to love, for love, to give and accept love. Only she tried twice and failed twice to find somebody not just strong enough to deserve it, earn it, match it, but even brave enough to accept it.
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Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets.
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