It is community and respect, of course, but the dead have more claims on you than what you might want to admit or even what you might know about and them claims can be very strong indeed. Very strong indeed.
It just bothered me that you might think I'm somethin special. I aint.
This place aint the same. It never will be. Maybe we've all got a little crazy. I guess if everbody went crazy together nobody would notice, what do you think?
Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground.
Here beyond men's judgments all covenants were brittle.
I don't know why I started writing. I don't know why anybody does it. Maybe they're bored, or failures at something else.
Where in this pukehole can a man get a drink? he said
Pain for the old was no longer a surprise.
The passing of armies and the passing of sands in the desert are one.
It had ceased raining in the night and he walked out on the road and called for the dog. He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness. Where there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.
The truth may often be carried about by those who themselves remain all unaware of it. They bear that which has weight and substance and yet for them has no name whereby it may be evoked or called forth. They go about ignorant of the true nature of their condition, such are the wiles of truth and such its stratagems.
Each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins.
Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.
Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.
Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.
The martyr who longs for the flames can be no right candidate for them.
I dont know what I ever done, she said. I truly dont. Chigurh nodded. Probably you do, he said. There's a reason for everything. She shook her head. How many times I've said them very words. I wont again.
There is a moon shaped rictus in the streetlamp's globe where a stone has gone and from this aperture there drifts down through the constant helix of aspiring insects a faint and steady rain of the same forms burnt and lifeless.
On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.
I guess if everybody went crazy together nobody would notice.
Teaching writing is a hustle.
In the spaniards heart is a great yearning for freedom, but only his own. A great love for truth and honor in all its forms, but not in its substance. And a deep conviction that nothing can be proven except that it be made to bleed. Virgins, bulls, men. Ultimately God himself.
War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god.
No one can tell you what your life is goin to be, can they? No. It's never like what you expected. Quijada nodded. If people knew the story of their lives how many would then elect to live them?
And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. Like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to the day.
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