Cormac McCarthy (born Charles McCarthy; July 20, 1933) is an American novelist, playwright, and screenwriter. He has written ten novels, spanning the Southern Gothic, Western, and post-apocalyptic genres.
Dying ain't in people's plans, is it?
I look for the words, Professor. I look for the words because I believe that the words is the way to your heart.
People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they don't deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things
Only that man who has offered up himself entire to the blood of war, who has been to the floor of the pit and seen the horror in the round and learned at last that it speaks to his inmost heart, only that man can dance. - The judge
The core of literature is the idea of tragedy. . . You don't really learn much from the good things that happen to you.
Word gets around when the circus comes to town, don't it?
Our enemies. . . seem always with us. The greater our hatred the more persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that the man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him.
It may be that the life I desire for her no longer even exists, yet I know what she does not. That there is nothing to lose.
To see God everywhere is to see Him nowhere.
I was afraid I was going to die and then I was afraid I wasnt.
All the time you spend tryin to get back what's been took from you there's more goin out the door. After a while you just try and get a tourniquet on it.
All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage.
In the spring or warmer weather when the snow thaws in the woods the tracks of winter reappear on slender pedestals and the snow reveals in palimpsest old buried wanderings, struggles, scenes of death. Tales of winter brought to light again like time turned back upon itself.
There is a moon shaped rictus in the streetlamp's globe where a stone has gone and from this aperture there drifts down through the constant helix of aspiring insects a faint and steady rain of the same forms burnt and lifeless.
Doomed enterprises divide lives forever into the then and now
Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.
Each leaf that brushed his face deepened his sadness and dread. Each leaf he passed he'd never pass again. They rode over his face like veils, already some yellow, their veins like slender bones where the sun shone through them. He had resolved himself to ride on for he could not turn back and the world that day was as lovely as any day that ever was and he was riding to his death.
The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstition will drag him down. The rain will erode the deeds of his life. But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will by the decision alone have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate.
There is no later. This is later.
When the shooting starts would you rather be armed or legal?