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Carson McCullers Biography

Carson McCullers

Carson McCullers (February 19, 1917 – September 29, 1967) was an American novelist, short story writer, playwright, essayist, and poet. Her first novel, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, explores the spiritual isolation of misfits and outcasts in a small town of the U.S. South. Her other novels have similar themes and most are set in the deep South.

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Carson McCullers Quotes

People felt themselves watching him even before they knew that there was anything different about him. His eyes made a person think that he heard things that no one else had ever heard, that he knew things no one had ever guessed before. He did not seem quite human.

Eye, Heard, People, Quite, Things, Thinking

I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.

Home, Horror, Periodically, Renew, Sense

This fear is one of the horrors of an author's life. Where does work come from? What chance, what small episode will start the chain of creation? I once wrote a story about a writer who could not write anymore, and my friend Tennessee Williams said, 'How could you dare write that story, it's the most frightening work I have ever read. ' I was pretty well sunk while I was writing it.

Chain, Doe, Fear, Tennessee, Write, Writing

That was the best of all. To speak the truth and be attended.

Attended, Speak, Speak The Truth, Truth

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

Heart, Hunter, Hunters, Lonely

In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise. But still he wandered through the streets of the town, always silent and alone.

Faces, Peace, Sorrowful, Towns, Wise

There are all these people here I don't know by sight or by name. And we pass alongside each other and don't have any connection. And they don't know me and I don't know them. And now I'm leaving town and there are all these people I will never know.

Connection, Know, Names, People, Sight, Town

How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?

Dead, Heart Is A Lonely Hunter, Left, Left Behind, Soul, Souls

You don't know what it is to store up a lot of details and then come upon something real.

Come, Details, Real, Store, Stores

. . . and we are not alone in this slavery. there are millions of others throughout the world, of all colors and races and creeds. this we must remember. there are many of our people who hate the poor of the white race, and they hate us. the people in this town living by the river who work in the mills. people who are almost as much in need as we are ourselves. this hatred is a great evil, and no good can ever come from it. . . the injustice of need must bring us all together and not separate us. we must remember that we all make the things of this earth of value because of labor.

Bring, Hate, Millions, Rivers, White, World

The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.

Care, Cared, Caring, Closest, Thing

The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.

Goes On, Ideas, Seed, Struggle, Unconscious

A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lillies of the swamp.

Beautiful, Love, Mediocre, Poison, Swamps

The human heart is a lonely hunter-but the search for us southerners is more anguished.

Anguished, Heart, Hunters, Lonely, Southerners

It was like she was cheated. Only nobody had cheated her. So there was nobody to take it out on. However, just the same she had that feeling. Cheated.

Cheated, Feelings, Heart Is A Lonely Hunter, Like, Nobody, Same

The dimensions of a work of art are seldom realized by the author until the work is accomplished. It is like a flowering dream. Ideas grow, budding silently, and there are a thousand illuminations coming day by day as the work progresses. A seed grows in writing as in nature. The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.

Art, Dream, Labor, Like, Silently, Struggle

The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.

Alone, Fatal, Freedom, Men, Stand, Trying

She wished there was some place where she could go to hum it out loud. Some kind of music was too private to sing in a house cram fall of people. It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house.

Crowded, Fall, House, Loud, People, Place

But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.

Matter, Music, No Matter What

Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.

Death, Gamer, Sleeve, Tricks

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