|
d938088
|
a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change. Yes. A man will talk about how he'd like to escape from living folks. But it's the dead folks that do him the damage. It's the dead ones that lay quiet in one place and dont try to hold him, that he cant escape from.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
b24fdc0
|
She was the captain of her soul
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
7ce91f1
|
I know now that what makes a fool is an inability to take even his own good advice.
|
|
fool
|
William Faulkner |
|
89203be
|
I am not one of those women who can stand things.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
07ba078
|
I say money has no value; it's just the way you spend it.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
7c61f3f
|
I seemed to be lying neither asleep nor awake looking down a long corridor of gray half light where all stable things had become shadowy paradoxical all I had done shadows all I had felt suffered taking visible form antic and perverse mocking without relevance inherent themselves with the denial of the significance they should have affirmed thinking I was I was not who was not was not who.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
07de7e4
|
Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders. Knows remembers believes a corridor in a big long garbled cold echoing building of dark red brick sootbleakened by more chimneys than its own, set in a grassless cinderstrewnpacked compound surrounded by smoking factory purlieus and enclosed by ten food steel-and-wire fence like a penitentiary or a zoo, where in random erratic surges..
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
1ed715b
|
She wouldn't say what we both knew. 'The reason you will not say it is, when you say it, even to yourself, you will know it is true: is that it? But you know it is true now. I can almost tell you the day when you knew it is true. Why won't you say it, even to yourself?' She will not say it.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
8723729
|
My, my. A body does get around.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
999b5d5
|
If you could just ravel out into time. That would be nice. It would be nice if you could just ravel out into time
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
9907946
|
War is an episode, a crisis, a fever the purpose of which is to rid the body of fever. So the purpose of a war is to end the war.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
cf7500e
|
It's always the idle habits you acquire which you will regret. Father said that. That Christ was not crucified: he was worn away by a minute clicking of little wheels. That had no sister.
|
|
regret
sisters
|
William Faulkner |
|
a4c61d0
|
It's all now you see. Yesterday won't be over until tomorrow and tomorrow began ten thousand years ago. 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, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with ..
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
9a36f7e
|
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.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
94f26c2
|
I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue...
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
48d76bc
|
They all talked at once, their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient, making of unreality a possibility, then a probability, then an incontrovertible fact, as people will when their desires become words.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
b069bf0
|
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.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
3a166a4
|
I took out my watch and listened to it clicking away, not knowing it couldn't even lie
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
a943f03
|
any live man is better than any dead man but no live or dead man is very much better than any other live or dead man
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
6822347
|
Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both:---touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am's private own: not spirit, soul; the liquorish and ungirdled mind is anyone's to take in any any darkened hallway of this earthly tenement. But let fle..
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
e7dca6f
|
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.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
2743e37
|
And he was not old enough to talk and say nothing at the same time.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
6d750b1
|
I dont hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark; I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!
|
|
winter
dark
new-england
|
William Faulkner |
|
8b25b8d
|
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.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
52ce444
|
I am older at twenty than a lot of people who have died.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
c56eca4
|
Because Father said clocks slay time. He said time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
8ae5a71
|
The sun, an hour above the horizon, is poised like a bloody egg upon a crest of thunderheads; the light has turned copper: in the eye portentous, in the nose sulphurous, smelling of lightning.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
1934818
|
in August in Mississippi there's a few days somewhere about the middle of the month when suddenly there's a foretaste of fall, it's cool, there's a lambence, a soft, a luminous quality to the light, as though it came not from just today but from back in the old classic times. It might have fauns and satyrs and the gods and---from Greece, from Olympus in it somewhere. It lasts just for a day or two, then it's gone. . .the title reminded me o..
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
b0621cc
|
It is as though the space between us were time: an irrevocable quality. It is as though time, no longer running straight before us in a diminishing line, now runs parallel between us like a looping string, the distance being the doubling accretion of the thread an not the interval between.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
8a52847
|
Though children can accept adults as adults, adults can never accept children as anything but adults too.
|
|
children
|
William Faulkner |
|
be50675
|
Tell about the South. What's it like there. What do they do there. Why do they live there. Why do they live at all.
|
|
shreve
|
William Faulkner |
|
fcdaf77
|
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.
|
|
cowardice
|
William Faulkner |
|
d7ed9ed
|
It's because I'm alone.. If I could just feel it, it would be different, because I would not be alone. But if I were not alone, everybody would know it. And he could do so much for me, and then I would not be alone. Then I could be all right alone.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
7f549c1
|
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.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
091eb25
|
Even sound seemed to fail in this air, like the air was worn out with carrying sounds so long.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
e107838
|
In the South you are ashamed of being a virgin. Boys. Men. They lie about it. Because it means less to women, Father said. He said it was men invented virginity not women. Father said it's like death: only a state in which the others are left and I said, But to believe it doesn't matter and he said, That's what's so sad about anything: not only virginity and I said, Why couldn't it have been me and not her who is unvirgin and he said, That'..
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
200a079
|
He just thought quietly, 'So this is love. I see, I was wrong about it too', thinking as he had thought before and would think again and as every other man has thought: how false the most profound book turns out to be when applied to life. [...] 'Perhaps they were right in putting love into books,' he thought quietly. 'Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
1505f4b
|
It's like it ain't so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
|
|
society
|
William Faulkner |
|
312e62e
|
Knowing not grieving remembers a thousand savage and lonely streets.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
8038e0b
|
One day I was talking to Cora. She prayed for me because she believed I was blind to sin, wanting me to kneel and pray too, because people to whom sin is just a matter of words, to them salvation is just words too.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
989acd0
|
Did you ever have a sister? did you?
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
ec36488
|
He thought that it was loneliness which he was trying to escape and not himself. But the street ran on: catlike, one place was the same as another to him. But in none of them could he be quiet. But the street ran on in its moods and phases, always empty: he might have seen himself as in numberless avatars, in silence, doomed with motion, driven by the courage of flagged and spurred despair; by the despair of courage whose opportunities had ..
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
38f2d6b
|
Between grief and nothing I will take grief.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |
|
e5dd6df
|
That's what they mean by the womb of time: the agony and the despair of spreading bones, the hard girdle in which lie the outraged entrails of events.
|
|
|
William Faulkner |