It's like everything in the world for me is inside a tub full of guts, so that you wonder how there can be any room in it for anything else very important.

William Faulkner

William Faulkner

Profession: Novelist
Nationality: American

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I could hear my watch whenever the car stopped, but not often they were already eating Who would play a Eating the business of eating inside of you space too space and time confused Stomach saying noon brain saying eat o clock All right I wonder what time it is what of it.

You know that if I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.

The Lord can see into the heart. If it is His will that some folks has different ideas about honesty from other folks, it is not my place to question His decree.

Idleness breeds our better virtues.

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.

I see all the while how folks could say he was queer, but that was the very reason couldn't nobody hold it personal. It was like he was outside of it too, same as you, and getting mad at it would be kind of like getting mad at a mud-puddle that splashed you when you stepped in it.

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.

Then the town was sorry with being glad, as people sometimes are sorry for those whom they have at last forced to do as they wanted them to.

I am too old for this. I was born too old for it, and so I am sick to death for quiet.

Ay, grief goes, fades; we know that–but ask the tear ducts if they have forgotten how to weep.

In the notseeing and the hardknowing as though in a cave he seemed to see a diminishing row of suavely shaped urns in moonlight, blanched.

Women know more about words than men ever will. And they know how little they can ever possibly mean.

What he was now seeing was the street lonely, savage, and cool. That was it: cool; he was thinking, saying aloud to himself sometimes, I better move. I better get away from here.

I decline to accept the end of man.