You men,' she says. 'You durn men.
William FaulknerTag: gender
Everything in Los Angeles is too large, too loud and usually banal in concept… The plastic asshole of the world.
William FaulknerHenry James was one of the nicest old ladies I ever met.
William FaulknerThe best fiction is far more true than any journalism.
William FaulknerTag: truth newspapers
A man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired but then time is your misfortune
William FaulknerTag: time misfortune
We have all heard what we wanted to hear! Truth that sounds right to our ears!
William FaulknerTag: aild an-ocean-between-us the-sound-of-truth
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, 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. Jewel knows he is, because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not. He cannot empty himself for sleep because he is not what he is and he is what he is not. Beyond the unlamped wall I can hear the rain shaping the wagon that is ours, the load that is no longer theirs that felled and sawed it nor yet theirs that bought it and which is not ours either, lie on our wagon though it does, since only the wind and the rain shape it only to Jewel and me, that are not asleep. And since sleep is is-not and rain and wind are was, it is not. Yet the wagon is, because when the wagon is was, Addie Bundren will not be. And Jewel is, so Addie Bundren must be. And then I must be, or I could not empty myself for sleep in a strange room. And so if I am not emptied yet, I am is.
How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.
...lifeless and shockingly alien in that place where dissolution itself was a seething turmoil of ejaculation tumescence conception and birth, and death did not even exit.
William FaulknerAn artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why.
William FaulknerThe 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.
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