Category: Author William Faulkner

Then alone, of all church gatherings, is there something of that peace which is the promise and the end of the Church. The mind and the heart purged then, if it is ever to be; the week and its whatever disasters finished and summed and expiated by the stern and formal fury of the morning…

a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he’s already got. He’ll cling to trouble he’s used to before he’ll risk a change. Yes. A man will talk about how he’d like to escape from living folks. But it’s the dead folks that do him…

Folks are funny. They can’t stick to one way of thinking or doing anything unless they get a new reason for doing it ever so often. William Faulkner Light in August 4 Oh, he said. I see. But he did not see, exactly, though he believed that he could have been wrong and that she…

Surely heaven must have something of the color and shape of whatever village or hill or cottage of which the believer says, This is my own. William Faulkner Light in August 15 At first it had been a torrent; now it was a tide, with a flow and ebb. During its flood she could almost…

Sometimes 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…

El cielo se ha posado en la ladera, sobre los secretos pimpollares. Por más allá del cerro los relámpagos chafarrinan las alturas con destellos de color que rápidamente se desvanecen. Aire de muerte envuelve a la muerta tierra con una oscuridad de muerte. Aire que pesa sobre mí, aire muerto y caliente, que, pese al…

It’s like some folks has the smooth, pretty boards to build a courthouse with and others dont have no more than rough lumber fitten to build a chicken coop. But’s it’s better to build a tight chicken coop than a shoddy courthouse… William Faulkner As I Lay Dying 2 NOW the final copper light of…

He was working fast, yet thinking went slow enough. He knew why now. He knew now that thinking went slow and smooth with calculation, as oil is spread slowly upon a surface above a brewing storm. William Faulkner Light in August 1 Like a long sighing of wind in trees it begins, then they sweep…

Henry was the provincial, the clown almost, given to instinctive and violent action rather than to thinking who may have been conscious that his fierce provincial’s pride in his sister’s virginity was a false quantity which must incorporate in itself an inability to endure in order to be precious, to exist, and so must depend…

Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both:—touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am’s private own: not spirit, soul; the…