I can't do nothing. Just put it off. And that don't do no good. I reckon it belong to me. I reckon what I going to get ain't no more than mine.
William FaulknerMots clés fate
My, my. A body does get around.
William FaulknerMots clés moving
She was bored. She loved, had capacity to love, for love, to give and accept love. Only she tried twice and failed twice to find somebody not just strong enough to deserve it, earn it, match it, but even brave enough to accept it.
William FaulknerMots clés love accepting-love
And I reckon them that are good must suffer for it the same as them that are bad.
William FaulknerMots clés good-and-evil
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.
William FaulknerYou don’t love because: you love despite; not for the virtues, but despite the faults.
William FaulknerMots clés love
Don't bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself.
William FaulknerMots clés motivational inspirational faulkner
A dream is not a very safe thing to be near... I know; I had one once. It's like a loaded pistol with a hair trigger: if it stays alive long enough, somebody is going to be hurt. But if it's a good dream, it's worth it.
William FaulknerSometimes I aint so sho who's got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It's like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
William FaulknerHe was looking forward to his visit not only for the pleasure of the shrewd dealing which far transcended mere gross profit, but with the sheer happiness of being out of bed and moving once more at free will, even though a little weakly, in the sun and air which men drank and moved in and talked and dealt with one another - a pleasure no small part of which lay in the fact that he had not started yet and was absolutely nothing under heaven to make him start until he wanted to. He did not still feel weak, he was merely luxuriating in that supremely gutful lassitude of convalescence in which time, hurry, doing, did not exist, the accumulating seconds and minutes and hours to which in its well state the body's slave both waking and sleeping, now reversed and time now the lip-server and mendicant to the body's pleasure instead of the body thrall to time's headlong course.
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