129 ordspråk av William Faulkner
William Faulkner
My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whisky.
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Nicknames are vulgar. Only common people use them.
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No man can cause more grief than that one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors.
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No man can write who is not first a humanitarian
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No one is without Christianity, if we agree on what we mean by the word. It is every individual's individual code of behavior by means of which he makes him or herself a better human being than their nature wants to be, if they followed their nature only. Whatever its symbol -- cross or crescent or whatever -- that symbol is man's reminder of his duty inside the human race.
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Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say.
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One of the saddest things is that the only thing that a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can't eat eight hours a day nor drink for eight hours a day nor make love for eight hours -- all you can do for eight hours is work. Which is the reason why man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and unhappy.
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Only vegetables are happy
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Others have done it before me. I can, too.
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Our tragedy is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it... the basest of all things is to be afraid.
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People between twenty and forty are not sympathetic. The child has the capacity to do but it can't know. It only knows when it is no longer able to do -- after forty. Between twenty and forty the will of the child to do gets stronger, more dangerous, but it has not begun to learn to know yet. Since his capacity to do is forced into channels of evil through environment and pressures, man is strong before he is moral. The world's anguish is caused by people between twenty and forty.
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People need trouble -- a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it. Artists do; I don't mean you need to live in a rat hole or gutter, but you have to learn fortitude, endurance. Only vegetables are happy.
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Perhaps they were right in putting love into books, . . . Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.
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Pointless. . . . Like giving caviar to an elephant.
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Poor man. Poor mankind.
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