Cormac McCarthy Quotes

Dope.
They sell that shit to schoolkids.
It's worse than that.
How's that?
Schoolkids buy it.

He remembered Alejandra and the sadness he'd first seen in the slope of her shoulders which he'd presumed to understand and of which he knew nothing and he felt a loneliness he'd not known since he was a child and he felt wholly alien to the world although he loved it still. He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought the world's heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world's pain and it's beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.

If trouble comes when you least expect it then maybe the thing to do is to always expect it.

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.

The martyr who longs for the flames can be no right candidate for them.

Listen to me, he said, when your dreams are of some world that never was or some world that never will be, and you're happy again, then you'll have given up. Do you understand? And you can't give up, I won't let you.

They spoke less and less between them until at last they were silent altogether as is often the way with travelers approaching the end of a journey.

When we're all gone at last then there'll be nobody here but death and his days will be numbered too. He'll be out in the road there with nothing to do and nobody to do it to. He'll say: where did everybody go? And that's how it will be. What's wrong with that?

The closest bonds we will ever know are bonds of grief. The deepest community one of sorrow.

It's a mess, aint it Sheriff?

If it aint it'll do till a mess gets here.

- I dont know what that means. Physics tries to draw a numerical picture of the world. I dont know that it actually explains anything. You cant illustrate the unknown. Whatever that might mean.

In the morning they came up out of the ravine and took to the road again. He'd carved the boy a flute from a piece of roadside cane and he took it from his coat and gave it to him. The boy took it wordlessly. After a while he fell back and after a while the man could hear him playing. A formless music for the age to come. Or perhaps the last music on earth called up from out of the ashes of its ruin. The man turned and looked back at him. He was lost in concentration. The man thought he seemed some sad and solitary changeling child announcing the arrival of a traveling spectacle in shire and village who does not know that behind him the players have all been carried off by wolves.

Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.

You forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget.

What's the bravest thing you ever did?
He spat in the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said.