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
I said You don’t know what worry is. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know whether I am worrying or not. Whether I can or not. I don’t know whether I can cry or not. I don’t know whether I have tried to or not. I feel like a wet seed wild in… Continue reading William Faulkner
The scene is memory and is therefore non-realistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. — Tennessee Williams comments about the concept of his “memory play,” The Glass Menagerie, which… Continue reading Tennessee Williams
The name of a person you love is more than language… — Tennessee Williams, from “The Vine,” Tennessee Williams: Collected Stories. (New Directions; Reprint edition, April 17, 1994) Originally published 1985.
When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone. ― Tennessee Williams, Camino Real. (New Directions; 1 edition, January 17, 1970) Originally published 1948) Originally published 1948.
He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn’t need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear.… Continue reading William Faulkner