Quotes On The Road Cormac Mccarthy

#1. When he reached the fence he stopped for a moment to look back at the road and then he went on, crossing into a field of rank weeds that heeled with harsh dip and clash under the wind as if fled through by something unseen.

Cormac McCarthy

#2. The shape of the city stood in the grayness like a charcoal drawing sketched across the waste.

Cormac McCarthy

#3. On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.

Cormac McCarthy

#4. Love is the keynote, Joy is the music, Knowledge is the performer, the Infinite All is the composer and audience.

Sri Aurobindo

#5. Suppose you were the last one left? Suppose you did that to yourself?

Cormac McCarthy

#6. Sometimes I think your intellect can get in your way as an actor or an artist. When you come from a world of improv and comedy, you're able to let it flicker and fall out.

Paul Dano

#7. The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy; I loved that book.

Isaac Marion

#8. A rich smell of woodsmoke hung over the road.

Cormac McCarthy

#9. No one has a name in 'The Road.' Like Cormac McCarthy's novel from which it's adapted, 'The Road' features characters such as the man, the boy, the wife, the old man and the veteran.

Garret Dillahunt

#10. Without needing told, without Jacob's lead, Akando dropped to his knees and lunged into the throne room of Christ.

Willowy Whisper

#11. A true gentleman ... was characterized as the man that asks the fewest questions. This trait of refined society might be adopted into home-like in a far greater degree than it is, and make it far more agreeable.

Harriet Beecher Stowe

#12. The physicists say that I am a mathematician, and the mathematicians say that I am a physicist. I am a completely isolated man and though everybody knows me, there are very few people who really know me.

Albert Einstein

#13. When we're all gone at last then there'll be nobody here but death and his days will be numbered too. He'll be out in the road there with nothing to do and nobody to do it to. He'll say: where did everybody go? And that's how it will be. What's wrong with that?

Cormac McCarthy

#14. That was the day that my brother was in our house again. In a strange and inexplicable way, my brother had come home.

Benjamin Alire Saenz

#15. She asked me when I had started feeling a need to grant people's wishes, and whether I felt a desperate need to please. She asked about my mother, and I told her that she could not judge me as she would judge mortals, for I was a djinn, powerful and wise, magical and mysterious.

Neil Gaiman

#16. His mind was betraying him. Phantoms not heard from in a thousand years rousing slowly from their sleep.

Cormac McCarthy

#17. It took two days to cross that ashen scabland. The road beyond fell away on every side. It's snowing, the boy said. He looked at the sky. A single gray flake sifting down. He caught it in his hand and watched it expire there like the last host of christendom.

Cormac McCarthy

#18. What's the bravest thing you ever did?
He spat in the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said.

Cormac McCarthy

#19. He'd stop and lean on the cart and the boy would go on and then stop and look back and he would raise his weeping eyes and see him standing there in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle.

Cormac McCarthy

#20. Dwindling slowly on the road behind him like some storybook peddler from an antique time, dark and bent and spider thin and soon to vanish forever.

Cormac McCarthy

#21. What happens is, when I perform, I'm somewhere else. I go back in time and get in touch with who I really am. I forget my troubles, my worries.

Etta James

#22. There is no such joy in the tavern as upon the road thereto.

Cormac McCarthy

#23. A forest fire was making its way along the tinderbox ridges above them, flaring and shimmering against the overcast like the northern lights. Cold as it was he stood there a long time. The color of it moved something in him long forgotten. Make a list. Recite a litany. Remember.

Cormac McCarthy

#24. The road has its own reasons and no two travelers will have the same understanding of those reasons. If indeed they come to an understanding of them at all.

Cormac McCarthy

#25. In the draws the smoke coming off the ground like mist and the thin black trees burning on the slopes like heathen candles.

Cormac McCarthy

#26. There's too much shit still down the road that I got to deal with. It aint goin to end here.

Cormac McCarthy

#27. He walked to the top of a rise and crouched and watched the day accrue. The chary dawn, the cold illucid world.

Cormac McCarthy

#28. Individuation is to divest the self of false wrappings.

Carl Jung

#29. The boy's candlecolored skin was all but translucent.

Cormac McCarthy

#30. I always considered myself very successful even before the success of Secrets and Lies.

Brenda Blethyn

#31. In the dark glass where the road poured down their cigarettes rose and fell like distant semaphores above the soft green dawn of the dashlights.

Cormac McCarthy

#32. Where all was burnt to ash before them no fires were to be had and the nights were long and dark and cold beyond anything they'd yet encountered. Cold to crack the stones. To take your life.

Cormac McCarthy

#33. The books I love most are the ones that combine some sort of gripping story with really beautiful or stylish writing. Some of my favorites are 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, 'The Virgin Suicides' by Jeffrey Eugenides, 'The Interpreter of Maladies' by Jhumpa Lahiri, and 'Blindness' by Jose Saramago.

Karen Thompson Walker

#34. To 'choose' dogma and faith over doubt and experience is to throw out the ripening vintage and to reach greedily for the Kool-Aid.

Christopher Hitchens

#35. The faint light all about, quivering and sourceless, refracted in the rain of drifting soot.

Cormac McCarthy