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William Faulkner Quotes - Page 16

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How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.

How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.

William Faulkner
Attitude, Fall, Sunset

Well, Bud," he said, looking at me, "I'll be damned if you don't go to a lot of trouble to have your fun. Kidnapping, then fighting. What do you do on your holidays? Burn houses?

William Faulkner
Best Friend, Fun, Holiday

We have all heard what we wanted to hear! Truth that sounds right to our ears!

William Faulkner
Sound, Ears, Heard

Did you ever have a sister? did you?

William Faulkner
William Faulkner (2016). “The Sound and the Fury (Third International Edition) (Norton Critical Editions)”, p.88, W. W. Norton & Company

I decline to accept the end of man.

William Faulkner
Art, Philosophy, Men
Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Stockholm, 10 Dec. 1950

He [the writer] must, teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and compassion and sacrifice. See Poets & Writers

William Faulkner
Teaching, Heart, Sacrifice
Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Stockholm, 10 Dec. 1950

It was like something you have dreaded and feared and dodged for years until it seemed like all your life, then despite everything it happened to you and all it was was just pain, all it did was hurt and so it was all over, all finished, all right.

William Faulkner
Hurt, Pain, Years
William Faulkner (1956). “Intruder in the Dust”

When I was a boy I first learned how much better water tastes when it has set a while in a cedar bucket. Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in Cedar trees smells.

William Faulkner
Boys, July, Wind
William Faulkner, Eugene O'Neill, John Steinbeck (1971). “William Faulkner, Eugene O'Neill [and] John Steinbeck”

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