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.
William FaulknerThey say love dies between two people. Thatโs wrong. It doesnโt die. It just leaves you, goes away, if you arenโt good enough, worthy enough. It doesnโt die; youโre the the one that dies. Itโs like the ocean: if youโre no good, if you begin to make a bad smell in it, it just spews you up somewhere to die. You die anyway, but I had rather drown in the ocean than be urped up onto a strip of dead beach and be dried away by the sun into a little foul smear with no name to it, just this was for an epitaph
William FaulknerSome days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar.
William FaulknerIt is my ambition to be, as a private individual, abolished and voided from history, leaving it markless, no refuse save the printed books. [] It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: he made the books and he died.
William Faulkner