Carson McCullers (February 19, 1917 - September 29, 1967) was an American writer of novels, short stories, plays, essays, and poetry. Her first novel, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, explores the spiritual isolation of misfits and outcasts in a small town of the U.S. South. Her other novels have similar themes and most are set in the deep South. (Click here for full Wikipedia article)
A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp.
All we can do is go around telling the truth.
But look what the Church has done to Jesus during the last two thousand years. What they have made of Him. How they have turned every word He spoke for their own vile ends. Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.
But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.
How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
I think we look for the differences in people because it makes us less lonely.
If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are gone, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing.
It is music that causes the heart to broaden and the listener to grow cold with ecstasy and fright.
Love is a joint experience between two persons- but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved.
Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.
Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.
The closest thing to being cared for is to care for someone else.
The Heart is a lonely hunter with only one desire! To find some lasting comfort in the arms of another's fire... driven by a desperate hunger to the arms of a neon light, the heart is a lonely hunter when there's no sign of love in sight!
The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.
The most fatal thing a man can do is try to stand alone.
The thinking mind is best controlled by the imagination.
The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.
The world is certainty a sudden place.
There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.
There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.
We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.