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Authors: Cormac McCarthy Quotes, Famous Cormac McCarthy Quotes, Sayings, Quotations
Related Quotes:  The Road  All the Pretty Horses  Blood Meridian
I don't know why I started writing. I don't know why anybody does it. Maybe they're bored, or failures at something else.
Cormac McCarthy
I felt early on I wasn't going to be a respectable citizen.
Cormac McCarthy
Even if what you're working on doesn't go anywhere, it will help you with the next thing you're doing. Make yourself available for something to happen. Give it a shot.
Cormac McCarthy
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
All the Pretty Horses.
He said that those who have endured some misfortune will always be set apart but that it is just that misfortune which is their gift and which is their strength.
Cormac McCarthy
All the Pretty Horses.
Scared money cant win and a worried man cant love.
Cormac McCarthy
All the Pretty Horses.
Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
Cormac McCarthy
All the Pretty Horses.
Every moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing. Somewhere you made a choice. All followed to this. The accounting is scrupulous. The shape is drawn. No line can be erased. I had no belief in your ability to move a coin to your bidding. How could you? A person's path through the world seldom changes and even more seldom will it change abruptly. And the shape of your path was visible from the beginning.
Cormac McCarthy
No Country for Old Men.
Who knows what worse luck your bad luck has save you from.
Cormac McCarthy
No Country for Old Men.
The point is there ain't no point.
Cormac McCarthy
No Country for Old Men.
How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?
Cormac McCarthy
No Country for Old Men.
You keep runnin that mouth and I'm goin to take you back there and screw you.
Cormac McCarthy
No Country for Old Men.
If there's one thing on this planet you don't look like it's a bunch of good luck walkin around.
Cormac McCarthy
No Country for Old Men.
That which exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.
Cormac McCarthy
Blood Meridian.
War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.
Cormac McCarthy
Blood Meridian.
Men of God and men of war have strange affinities.
Cormac McCarthy
Blood Meridian.
Where in this pukehole can a man get a drink? he said.
Cormac McCarthy
Blood Meridian.
Deep in each man is the knowledge that something knows of his existence. Something knows, and cannot be fled nor hid from.
Cormac McCarthy
The Crossing.
Nor does God whisper through the trees. His voice is not to be mistaken. When men hear it they fall to their knees and their souls are riven and they cry out to Him and there is no fear but only wildness of heart that springs from such longing.
Cormac McCarthy
The Crossing.
The rain falls upon the just
And also on the unjust fellas
But mostly it falls upon the just
Cause the unjust have the just's umbrellas.
Cormac McCarthy
The Stonemason.
When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath. He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none. In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Their light playing over the wet flowstone walls. Like pilgrims in a fable swallowed up and lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast. Deep stone flues where the water dripped and sang. Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease. Until they stood in a great stone room where lay a black and ancient lake. And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. It swung its head low over the water as if to take the scent of what it could not see. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow on the rocks behind it. Its bowels, its beating heart. The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell. It swung its head from side to side and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark.
Cormac McCarthy
Opening lines, The Road.
If he is not the word of God God never spoke.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
Are we going to die?
Sometime. Not now.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
It took two days to cross that ashen scabland. The road beyond fell away on every side. It's snowing, the boy said. He looked at the sky. A single gray flake sifting down. He caught it in his hand and watched it expire there like the last host of christendom.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
He thought if he lived long enough the world at last would be lost. Like the dying world the newly blind inhabit, all of it slowly fading from memory.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
From daydreams on the road there was no waking. He plodded on. He could remember everything of her save her scent. Seated in a theatre with her beside him leaning forward listening to the music. Gold scrollwork and sconces and the tall columnar folds of the drapes at either side of the stage. She held his hand in her lap and he could feel the tops of her stockings through the thin stuff of her summer dress. Freeze this frame. Now call down your dark and your cold and be damned.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. Like certain frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to the day.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
In those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. Wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators. Their barrows heaped with shoddy. Towing wagons or carts. Their eyes bright in their skulls. Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world. Query: how does the never to be differ from what never was?
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
Dark of the invisible moon. The nights now only slightly less black. By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
They stood on the far shore of a river and called to him. Tattered gods slouching in their rags across the waste. Trekking the dried floor of a mineral sea where it lay cracked and broken like a fallen plate. Paths of feral fire in the coagulate sands. The figures faded in the distance. He woke and lay in the dark.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes. So, he whispered to the sleeping boy. I have you.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
Are we still the good guys? he said.
Yes. We're still the good guys.
And we always will be.
Yes. We always will be.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
In the morning they came out of the ravine and took to the road again. He’d carved the boy a flute from a piece of roadside cane and he took it from his coat and gave it to him. The boy took it wordlessly. After a while the man could hear him playing. A formless music for the age to come. Or perhaps the last music on earth called up from out of the ashes of its ruin. The man turned and looked back at him. He was lost in concentration. The man thought he seemed some sad and solitary changeling child announcing the arrival of a traveling spectacle in shire and village who does not know that behind him the players have all been carried off by wolves.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
He walked out into the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of an intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
There is no God and we are his prophets.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
Years later he’d stood in the charred ruins of a library where blackened books lay in pools of water. Shelves tipped over. Some rage at the lies arranged in their thousands row on row. He picked up one of the books and thumbed through the heavy bloated pages. He’d not have thought the value of the smallest thing predicated on a world to come. It surprised him. That the space which these things occupied was itself an expectation. He let the book fall and took a last look around and made his way out into the cold gray light.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of floating cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small penknife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
And perhaps beyond those shrouded swells another man did walk with another child on the dead gray sands. Slept but a sea apart on another beach among the bitter ashes of the world or stood in their rags lost to the same indifferent sun.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the fl. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not to be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Cormac McCarthy
The Road, last lines of novel.
Cormac McCarthy: American novelist and playwright. Born July 20, 1933. Winner of Pulitzer Prize for 2006 novel The Road.


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