Cormac McCarthy is an American novelist and playwright. He has written ten novels in the Southern Gothic, western, and post-apocalyptic genres and has also written plays and screenplays. He received the Pulitzer Prize in 2007 for The Road, and his 2005 novel No Country for Old Men was adapted as a 2007 film of the same name, which won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture.
Let this list of 11 quotations by the American writer Cormac McCarthy lead you to an inspirational day. Recharge yourself with motivational creation, life, world sayings, and satisfy your hunger for a better life.
What are the best Cormac McCarthy quotes?
We've made this hand-picked collection of quotes to show you what is Cormac McCarthy truly willing to say and leave for generations. Whether an inspirational quote or a motivational message about giving your best, we can all benefit from the wisdom, captured within these words.
Even if what you're working on doesn't go anywhere, it will help you with the next thing you're doing. Make yourself available for something to happen. Give it a shot.
How can you believe in heaven if you don't believe in hell?
every man is tabernacled in every other, and he in exchange and so on in an endless complexity of being and witness to the uttermost edge of the world.
I can normally tell how intelligent a man is by how stupid he thinks I am.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains.
You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
People were always getting ready for tomorrow.
I didn't believe in that. Tomorrow wasn't getting ready for them. It didn't even know they were there.
If you could breathe a breath so strong you could blow out the wolf.
Like you blow out the copo. Like you blow out the fire from the candela. The wolf is made the way the world is made. You
cannot touch the world. You cannot hold it in your hand for it is made of breath only.
He rocked in the swells, floating like the first germ of life adrift on the earth's cooling seas, formless macule of plasm trapped in a vapor drop and all creation yet to come.
Ive seen the meanness of humans till I dont know why God aint put out the sun and gone away.
The point is there ain't no point.
Word gets around when the circus comes to town, don't it?
Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering.
He knew only that his child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.
He didn't say a lot so I tend to remember what he did say.
And I don't remember that he had a lot of patience with havin to say things twice so I learned to listen the first time.
For things at a common destination there is a common path. Not always easy to see. But there.
Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals come easily.
The jagged mountains were pure blue in the dawn and everywhere birds twittered and the sun when it rose caught the moon in the west so that they lay opposed to each other across the earth, the sun whitehot and the moon a pale replica, as if they were the ends of a common bore beyond whose terminals burned worlds past all reckoning.
If people knew the story of their lives how many would then elect to live them? People speak about what is in store. But there is nothing in store. The day is made of what has come before. The world itself must be surprised at the shape of that which appears. Perhaps even God.
Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.
Yet it is the narrative that is the life of the dream while the events themselves are often interchangeable. The events of the waking world on the other hand are forced upon us and the narrative is the unguessed axis along which they must be strung.
When God made man the devil was at his elbow.
A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.
In history there are no control groups.
There is no one to tell us what might have been. We weep over the might have been, but there is no might have been. There never was.
He'd half meant to speak but those eyes had altered the world forever in the space of a heartbeat.
Acts have their being in the witness.
Without him who can speak of it? In the end one could even say that the act is nothing, the witness all.
Years later he'd stood in the charred ruins of a library where blackened books lay in pools of water. Shelves tipped over. Some rage at the lies arranged in their thousands row on row. He picked up one of the books and thumbed through the heavy bloated pages. He'd not have thought the value of the smallest thing predicated on a world to come. It surprised him. That the space which these things occupied was itself an expectation.
The world could only be known as it existed in men's hearts.
For while it seemed a place which contained men it was in reality a place contained within them.
They were watching, out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.
The wrath of God lies sleeping. It was hid a million years before men were and only men have the power to wake it.
... a man leaves much when he leaves his own country.
Doomed enterprises divide lives forever into the then and now
He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.
It starts when you begin to overlook good manners.
Any time you quit hearing Sir and Mam the end is pretty much in sight.
They watched storms out there so distant they could not be heard, the silent lightning flaring sheetwise and the thin black spine of the mountain chain fluttering and sucked away again in the dark. They saw wild horses racing on the plain, pounding their shadows down the night and- leaving in the moonlight a vaporous dust like the palest stain of their passing.
The road has its own reasons and no two travelers will have the same understanding of those reasons. If indeed they come to an understanding of them at all.
We're carrying the fire.
He believed in God even if he was doubtful of men's claims to know God's mind.
But that a God unable to forgive was no God at all.
What is it? Nothing. I had a bad dream. What did you dream about? Nothing. Are you okay? No. He put his arms around him and held him. It's okay, he said. I was crying. But you didnt wake up. I'm sorry. I was just so tired. I meant in the dream.
Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.
How would you know if you were the last man on Earth? He said.
I don't guess you would know it. You'd just be it. Nobody would know it. It wouldn't make any difference. When you die it's the same as if everybody else died too.
See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire.
Teaching writing is a hustle.
If a man's at odds to know his own mind it's because he hasn't got aught but his mind to know it with.
In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments.
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
I will do what I promised." He whispered. "No matter what. I will not send you into the darkness alone.
Finally he said that among men there was no such communion as among horses and the notion that men can be understood at all was probably an illusion.
Every moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing.
Somewhere you made a choice. All followed to this. The accounting is scrupulous. The shape is drawn. No line can be erased. I had no belief in your ability to move a coin to your bidding. How could you? A person's path through the world seldom changes and even more seldom will it change abruptly. And the shape of your path was visible from the beginning.
He stood at the window of the empty cafe and watched the activites in the square and he said that it was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they'd have no heart to start at all.
and for a moment he held out his hands as if to steady himself or as if to bless the ground there or perhaps as if to slow the world that was rushing away and seemed to care nothing for the old or the young or rich or poor or dark or pale or he or she. Nothing for their struggles, nothing for their names. Nothing for the living or the dead.
Rage is really only for the good days.
The truth is there's little of that left. the truth is that the forms I see have been slowly emptied out. They no longer have any content. They are shapes only. A train, a wall, a world. Or a man. A thing dangling in senseless articulation in a howling void. No meaning to its life. Its words. Why would I seek the company of such a thing? Why?