Home   •   About   •   Categories   •   Message   •   Reviews   •   What I've Read   •   Theme
17 June 2013
Via   •   Source

Don’t be a ‘writer’. Be writing.

— William Faulkner
24 November 2012
Via   •   Source

I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

— William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury (via talkativolive)
28 September 2012
Via   •   Source
30 June 2012
Via   •   Source
  • Virginia Woolf on James Joyce: [Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.
  • Harold Bloom on J.K. Rowling: How to read ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’? Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.
  • H. G. Wells on George Bernard Shaw: An idiot child screaming in a hospital.
  • Ralph Waldo Emerson on Jane Austen: Miss Austen’s novels . . . seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world.
  • William Faulkner on Ernest Hemingway: He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.
  • Ernest Hemingway on William Faulkner: Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?
  • W. H. Auden on Robert Browning: I don’t think Robert Browning was very good in bed. His wife probably didn’t care for him very much. He snored and had fantasies about twelve-year-old girls.
  • Mark Twain on Jane Austen: Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone.
22 June 2012
Via   •   Source
explore-blog:

Faulkner was a postmaster, Kafka an insurance agent, Brontë a governess. The day jobs of famous authors.

explore-blog:

Faulkner was a postmaster, Kafka an insurance agent, Brontë a governess. The day jobs of famous authors.

20 May 2012
Via   •   Source

Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.

— William Faulkner, from The Wild Palms (via awritersruminations)
18 May 2012
Via   •   Source

Don’t be ‘a writer.’ Be writing.

— William Faulkner (via proustitute)
06 April 2012
Via   •   Source

She loved, had a 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 Faulkner (via thechocolatebrigade)
02 April 2012
Via   •   Source

In writing, you must kill all your darlings.

— William Faulkner (via cartographe)
21 March 2012
Via   •   Source
13 February 2012

Perhaps love cannot live anywhere but books.

— William Faulkner
12 January 2012
Via   •   Source

Perhaps love cannot live anywhere but books.

— William Faulkner (via girlwithoutwings)
30 September 2011

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

— William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
28 September 2011
Via   •   Source

Killing Charlemagne: Nobel Prize acceptance speech - William Faulkner 

Ladies and Gentlemen, 

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work - a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.He must learn them again. He 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 pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.

I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

16 September 2011

Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders.

— William Faulkner, Light in August