Cormac McCarthy Quotes

You have my whole heart. You always did.

He knew only that his child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.

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

"You have to carry the fire."
I don't know how to."
Yes, you do."
Is the fire real? The fire?"
Yes it is."
Where is it? I don't know where it is."
Yes you do. It's inside you. It always was there. I can see it."

I can normally tell how intelligent a man is by how stupid he thinks I am.

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

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.

When you die it's the same as if everybody else did too.

Your heart's desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery.

If only my heart were stone.

When the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.

The point is there ain't no point.

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear or cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses' ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse's whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.

If you break little promises, you'll break big ones.

There is no forgiveness. For women. A man may lose his honor and regain it again. But a woman cannot. She cannot.