Quotes from Cormac McCarthy

From thinking about your sweet face between my legs.

Trust me, Moss said. I hate hearin them words, the driver said. I always did. Have you ever said them? Yeah. I've said em. That's how come I know what they're worth.

There's two kinds of people that dont ask a lot of questions. One is too dumb to and the other dont need to.

Es un país estupendo, ¿verdad? Sí que lo es. Duérmete. ¿Compañero? Dime. Así es como era entre los habitantes primitivos, ¿verdad? Sí. ¿Cuánto tiempo crees que te gustaría quedarte aquí? Unos cien años. Duérmete.

I dont know what to tell you, he wrote. Much has changed and yet everything is the same. I am the same. I always will be. I'm writing because there are things that I think you would like to know. I am writing because there are things I dont want to forget. Everything is gone from my life except you. I dont even know what that means. There are times when I cant stop crying. I'm sorry. I'll try again tomorrow

Do I think you're crazy? he said. No. I dont. You've rewrote the book for crazy. If all you are is crazy then all them poor bastards in the loonybin that they're feedin under the door need to be set loose in the street.

He had no faith in the power of men to act wisely in their own behalf. It was his view rather that every act soon eluded the grasp of its propagator to be swept away in a clamorous tide of unforeseen consequence. He believed that in the world was another agenda, another order, and with this power lay whatever brief he may have held. In the meantime he waited to be called to he knew not what.

Of such dreams and of the rituals of them there can also be no end. The thing that is sought is altogether other. However it may be construed within men's dreams or by their acts it will never make a fit. These dreams and these acts are driven by a terrible hunger. They seek to meet a need which they can never satisfy, and for that we must be grateful.

All patched up out of parts and lowslung and bumping over the ruts. Filled with old lanky country boys with long cocks and big feet.

The evil has no alternate plan. It is simply incapable of assuming failure

Como el primer síntoma de un galucoma frío enpañando al mundo.

Nadie sabe para quien trabaja.

If you dont know what life is—and you dont—then I'm not sure how you would characterize the absence of it.

In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure death will.

Love is quite possibly a mental disorder itself.

All other trades are contained in that of war. Is that why war endures? No. It endures because young men love it and old men love it in them. Those that fought, those that did not.

I dont believe knowing can save us. What is constant in history is greed and foolishness and a love of blood and this is a thing that even God—who knows all that can be known—seems powerless to change.

I'm fixin to go do somethin dumbern hell but I'm goin anyways. If I dont come back tell Mother I love her. Your mother's dead Llewelyn. Well I'll tell her myself then.

What if the purpose of human charity wasn't to protect the weak -- which seems pretty anti-Darwinian anyway -- but to preserve the mad? Don't they get special treatment in most primitive societies? ( . . .) You have to be careful about who you do away with. It could be that some part of our understanding comes in vessels incapable of sustaining themselves. What do you think? Maybe you'd have to be crazy to think that.

And you will never know the depth of your heart until you are presented with the opportunity for revenge. Only then will you know what you are capable of.

People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didn't believe in that. Tomorrow wasn't getting ready for them. It didn't even know they were there.

The survivors lay quietly in that cratered void and watched the whitehot stars go rifling down the dark. Or slept with their alien hearts beating in the sand like pilgrims exhausted upon the face of the planet Anareta, clutched to a namelessness wheeling in the night.

And of course it's true that any number of these books were penned in lieu of burning down the world—which was their author's true desire. But the real question is are we few the last of a lineage? Will children yet to come harbor a longing for a thing they cannot even name?

I've been at some pains to tell you about myself because among other reasons I think we should know who our enemies are. I've known people to spend their lives nursing a hatred of phantoms and they were not happy people.