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Only when the clock stops does time come to life

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
Doe
Come
Time
Life
Stops
Clock

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Caddy got the box and set it on the floor and opened it. It was full of stars. When I was still, they were still. When I moved, they glinted and sparkled. I hushed.
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Truth that long clean clear simple undeniable unchallengeable straight and shining line, on one side of which black is black and on the other white is white, has now become an angle, a point of view.
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Did you ever have a sister? did you?
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Riches is nothing in the face of the Lord, for He can see into the heart.
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Teach yourself by your own mistakes people learn only by error.
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the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat
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A writer is trying to create believable people in credible moving situations in the most moving way he can.
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I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.
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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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Just when do men that have different blood in them stop hating one another?
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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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I'm bad and I'm going to hell, and I don't care. I'd rather be in hell than anywhere where you are.
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I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.
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When my horse is running good, I don't stop to give him sugar.
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And we'd sit in the dry leaves that whispered a little with the slow respiration of our waiting and with the slow breathing of the earth and the windless october, the rank smell of the lantern fouling the brittle air, listening to the dog and the echo of louis' voice dying away
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No battle is ever won ... victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
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People need trouble - a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it.
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Like a fellow running from or toward a gun ain't got time to worry whether the word for what he is doing is courage or cowardice.
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The writer has three sources: imagination, observation, and experience
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Caddy smelled like trees.
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