William Faulkner


William Faulkner Quotes

  • ''Poor man. Poor mankind.''
    William Faulkner (1897-1962), U.S. novelist. Hightower, in Light in August, ch. 4 (1932). Referring to Joe Christmas, suspected of murder and liable to be lynched.
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  • ''An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.''
    William Faulkner (1897-1962), U.S. novelist. Interview, Writers at Work, First Series, ed. Malcolm Cowley (1958).
  • ''[A man's] moral conscience is the curse he had to accept from the gods in order to gain from them the right to dream.''
    William Faulkner (1897-1962), U.S. novelist. Interview in Writers at Work, First Series, ed. Malcolm Cowley (1958).
  • ''If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.''
    William Faulkner (1897-1962), U.S. novelist. Interview in Writers at Work, First Series, ed. Malcolm Cowley (1958).
  • ''All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible.''
    William Faulkner (1897-1962), U.S. novelist. Interview, in Writers at Work, First Series, ed. Malcolm Cowley (1958). Referring to Faulkner's writing contemporaries.
  • ''The artist doesn't have time to listen to the critics. The ones who want to be writers read the reviews, the ones who want to write don't have the time to read reviews.''
    William Faulkner (1897-1962), U.S. novelist. Interview in Writers at Work, First Series, ed. Malcolm Cowley (1958).

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Best Poem of William Faulkner

A Poplar

Why do you shiver there
Between the white river and the road?
You are not cold,
With the sun light dreaming about you;
And yet you lift your pliant supplicating arms as though
To draw clouds from the sky to hide your slenderness.

You are a young girl
Trembling in the throes of ecstatic modesty,
A white objective girl
Whose clothing has been forcibly taken away from her.

Read the full of A Poplar

After Fifty Years

Her house is empty and her heart is old,
And filled with shades and echoes that deceive
No one save her, for still she tries to weave
With blind bent fingers, nets that cannot hold.
Once all men's arms rose up to her, ‘tis told,
And hovered like white birds for her caress:
A crown she could have had to bind each tress
Of hair, and her sweet arms the Witches' Gold.

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