He stood at the window of the empty cafe and watched the activites in the square and he said that it was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they'd have no heart to start at all. Cormac McCarthy More Quotes by Cormac McCarthy More Quotes From Cormac McCarthy There is a moon shaped rictus in the streetlamp's globe where a stone has gone and from this aperture there drifts down through the constant helix of aspiring insects a faint and steady rain of the same forms burnt and lifeless. Cormac McCarthy moon gone rain This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one's will and the will of another within that larger will which because it binds them is therefore forced to select. War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence.War is god. Cormac McCarthy unity games war She smiled. I think it's just the snow. I think it makes people stop and think. Bell nodded. I hope it comes a blizzard then. Cormac McCarthy snow people thinking You either stick or you quit. And I wouldnt quit you I dont care what you done. Cormac McCarthy i-dont-care done sticks Where hunters and woodcutters once slept in their boots by the dying light of their thousand fires and went on, old teutonic forebears with eyes incandesced by the visionary light of a massive rapacity, wave on wave of the violent and the insane, their brains stoked with spoorless analogues of all that was, lean aryans with their abrogate Semitic chapbook reenacting the dramas and parable therein. Cormac McCarthy eye fire drama I was afraid I was goin to die and then I was afraid I wasnt. Cormac McCarthy dies I ain't got an original thought in my head. If it ain't got the scent of divinity to it, I ain't interested in it Cormac McCarthy original-thought divinity scent What is it? Nothing. I had a bad dream. What did you dream about? Nothing. Are you okay? No. He put his arms around him and held him. It's okay, he said. I was crying. But you didnt wake up. I'm sorry. I was just so tired. I meant in the dream. Cormac McCarthy tired sorry dream The cooler days have brought a wistful mood upon him. The smell of coalsmoke in the air at night. Old times, dead years. For him such memories are bitter ones. Cormac McCarthy air night memories All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage. Cormac McCarthy ruins mystery order The small wad of burning paper drew down to a wisp of flame and then died out leaving a faint pattern for just a moment in the incandescence like the shape of a flower, a molten rose. Then all was dark again. Cormac McCarthy flames flower dark How surely are the dead beyond death. Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it. Cormac McCarthy bitter memories death See the hand that nursed the serpent. The fine hasped pipes of her fingerbones. The skin bewenned and speckled. The veins are milkblue and bulby. A thin gold ring set with diamonds. That raised the once child's heart of her to agonies of passion before I was. Here is the anguish of mortality. Hopes wrecked, love sundered. See the mother sorrowing. How everything that I was warned of's come to pass. Cormac McCarthy passion mother children I like what I do. Some writers have said in print that they hated writing and it was just a chore and a burden. I certainly don't feel that way about it. Sometimes it's difficult. You know, you always have this image of the perfect thing which you can never achieve, but which you never stop trying to achieve. But I think ... that's your signpost and your guide. You'll never get there, but without it you won't get anywhere. Cormac McCarthy perfect writing thinking Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering. Cormac McCarthy hell community suffering The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings. Cormac McCarthy hurt dark night You've got no cause to hurt me, she said. - I know. But I gave my word. - Your word? - Yes. We're at the mercy of the dead here. In this case your husband. - That dont make no sense. - I'm afraid it does Cormac McCarthy
