Carson McCullers

Next to music beer was best.

Because of the insolence of all the white race he was afraid to lose his dignity in friendliness.

The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

"I'm one who knows. I'm a stranger in a strange land."

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 full of people. It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house.

"The way I need you is a loneliness I cannot bear."

I want—I want—I want—was all that she could think about—but just what this real want was she did not know.

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.

The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as ever. And by habit they shortened their thoughts so that they would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow.

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

"I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?"

"Wherever you look there's meanness and corruption. This room, this bottle of grape wine, these fruits in the basket, are all products of profit and loss. A fellow can't live without giving his passive acceptance to meanness. Somebody wears his tail to a frazzle for every mouthful we eat and every stitch we wear—and nobody seems to know. Everybody is blind, dumb, and blunt-headed—stupid and mean."