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Robert Penn Warren

When lost in a thick-wooded country alwaysWork downward as water would. YouWill come out somewhere. — Robert Penn Warren, from “A Few Axioms for a Young Man,” Uncollected Poems 1943-1989, The Collected Poems of Robert Penn Warren, ed. John Burt (Louisiana State University Press, 1998)

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Truman Capote

But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up, Mr Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll… Continue reading Truman Capote

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William Alexander Percy

I have a need of silence and of stars ;Too much is said too loudly ; I am dazed.The silken sound of whirled infinityIs lost in voices shouting to be heard. — William Alexander Percy, from “In New York,” In April Once. (Hesperides Press October 26, 2007) Originaly published 1920.

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William Faulkner

I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won. They are not even fought. The… Continue reading William Faulkner

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Truman Capote

My, how foolish I am! You know what I’ve always thought? I’ve always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when He came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a… Continue reading Truman Capote

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Truman Capote

We are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other; so fierce is the world’s ridicule we cannot speak or show our tenderness; for us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laughter; and with the garbage of loneliness stuffed down us… Continue reading Truman Capote

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Frank Stanford

Amaranth There are no starfish in the sky tonight, But there is one below your belly, And there are cold evenings in your eyes. If I could get to your house I would look under the bed of your childhood, The tongueless loafer without laces or eyes, The cave of your young foot With its… Continue reading Frank Stanford

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Excerpt · Fiction · Novel · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Southern Gothic · Southern Literature · Southern Renaissance · Stream of Consciousness

William Faulkner

She smelled like trees. In the corner it was dark, but I could see the window. I squatted there, holding the slipper. I couldn’t see it but my hands saw it, and I could hear it getting night, and my hands saw the slipper but I couldn’t see myself, but my hands could see the… Continue reading William Faulkner

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