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It's always the idle habits you acquire which you will regret.
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
Idle
Habits
Acquire
Regret
Habit
Always
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Everything in Los Angeles is too large, too loud and usually banal in concept… The plastic asshole of the world.
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Hollywood is a place where a man can get stabbed in the back while climbing a ladder.
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Life is a process of preparing to be dead for a long time.
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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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The end of wisdom is to dream high enough to lose the dream in the seeking of it.
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Just when do men that have different blood in them stop hating one another?
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People need trouble - a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it.
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People need trouble - a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it. Artists do I don't mean you need to live in a rat hole or gutter, but you have to learn fortitude, endurance. Only vegetables are happy.
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I decline to accept the end of man.
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Wonder. Go on and wonder.
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The phenomenon of war is its hermaphroditism: the principles of victory and of defeat inhabit the same body and the necessary opponent, enemy, is merely the bed they self-exhaust each other on.
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I listen to the voices.
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I am not one of those women who can stand things.
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You should approach Joyce's Ulysses as the illiterate Baptist preacher approaches the Old Testament: with faith.
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She is like all the rest of them. Whether they are seventeen or fortyseven, when they finally come to surrender completely, it's going to be in words.
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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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A pair of jaybirds came up from nowhere, whirled up on the blast like gaudy scraps of cloth or paper and lodged in the mulberries, where they swung in raucous tilt and recover, screaming into the wind that ripped their harsh cries onward and away like scraps of paper or of cloth in turn.
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I am trying to say it all in one sentence, between one cap and one period.
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There is no such thing as was - only is. If was existed, there would be no grief or sorrow.
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When I was little there was a picture in one of our books, a dark place into which a single weak ray of light came slanting upon two faces lifted out of the shadow.
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