Top 450 William Faulkner Quotes (2024 Update)
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351. “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art.”

— William Faulkner

352. “I have but one rift in the darkness, that is that I have injured no one save myself by my folly, and that the extent of that folly you will never learn.”

— William Faulkner

353. “And when I think about that, I think that if nothing but being married will help a man, he’s durn nigh hopeless.”

— William Faulkner

354. “Beyond the bordering weeds a fence strangled in limp dilapidation, and from the weeds beside it the handles of a plow stood at a gaunt angle while its shard rusted peacefully in the undergrowth, and other implements rusted half concealed there – skeletons of labor healed over by the earth they were to have violated, kinder than they.”

— William Faulkner

355. “Innocence is innocent not because it rejects but because it accepts; is innocent not because it is impervious and invulnerable to everything, but because it is capable of accepting anything and still remaining innocent; innocent because it foreknows all and therefore doesn’t have to fear and be afraid.”

— William Faulkner

356. “If I were reincarnated, I’d want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.”

— William Faulkner

357. “I draw no petty social lines. A man to me is a man, wherever I find him.”

— William Faulkner

358. “Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency to get the book written.”

— William Faulkner

359. “You can be oblivious to the sound for a long while, then in a second of ticking it can create in the mind unbroken the long diminishing parade of time you didn’t hear.”

— William Faulkner

360. “They travelled crosstown now; the cab could rush fast down each block of the continuous alley, pausing only at the intersections where, to the right, canyonniched, the rumor of Grandlieu Street swelled and then faded in repetitive and indistinguishable turmoil, flicking on and past as though the cab ran along the rimless periphery of a ghostly wheel spoked with light and sound.”

— William Faulkner

361. “Maybe times are never strange to women: it is just one continuous monotonous thing full of the repeated follies of their menfolks.”

— William Faulkner

362. “She forced herself once more to think of nothing, to keep her consciousness immersed, as a little dog that one keeps under water until he has stopped struggling.”

— William Faulkner

363. “Pleasure, ecstasy, they cannot seem to bear: their escape from it is in violence, in drinking and fighting and apparently inescapable – -And so why should not their religion drive them to crucifixion of themselves and one another? he thinks.”

— William Faulkner

364. “The necessity of the idea creates its own style. The material itself dictates how it should be written.”

— William Faulkner

365. “I was a little crazy. You know how it is, how you want to rush into something you know is going to happen, no matter what it is. I guess lovers and suicides both know that feeling.”

— William Faulkner

366. “When folks wants a fellow, it’s best to wait till they sends for him, I’ve found.”

— William Faulkner

367. “I learned little save that most of the deeds, good and bad both, incurring opprobrium or plaudits or reward either, within the scope of man’s abilities, had already been performed and were to be learned about only from books.”

— William Faulkner

368. “Ay, grief goes, fades; we know that–but ask the tear ducts if they have forgotten how to weep.”

— William Faulkner

369. “I am too old for this. I was born too old for it, and so I am sick to death for quiet.”

— William Faulkner

370. “I write when I am inspired and I make sure I am inspired every day.”

— William Faulkner

371. “Let the past abolish the past when – and if – it can substitute something better.”

— William Faulkner

372. “It was like a meeting between two iron knights of the old time, not for material gain but for principle – honor denied with honor, courage denied with courage – the deed done not for the end but for the sake of the doing, put to the ultimate test and proving nothing save the finality of death and the vanity of all endeavor.”

— William Faulkner

373. “She accepted that – not reconciled: accepted – as though there is a breathing-point in outrage when you can accept it almost with gratitude since you can say to yourself, ’thank God, this is all; at least I now know all of it –.”

— William Faulkner

374. “A novelist is a failed short story writer, and a short story writer is a failed poet.”

— William Faulkner

375. “And that wasn’t the first time it ever occurred to me that this world ain’t run like it ought to be run a heap of more times than what it is.”

— William Faulkner

376. “Yes, we laughed, because I have learned this at least during these four years, that it really requires an empty stomach to laugh with, that only when you are hungry or frightened do you extract some ultimate essence out of laughing just as the empty stomach extracts the ultimate essence out of alcohol.”

— William Faulkner

377. “Yes, urge I do: warped chrysalis of what blind perfect seed: for who shall say what gnarled forgotten root might not bloom yet with some globed concentrate more globed and concentrate and heady-perfect because the neglected root was planted warped and lay not dead but merely slept forgot?”

— William Faulkner

378. “The writer has three sources: imagination, observation, and experience.”

— William Faulkner

379. “Then it wasn’t and she was, and now it is and she wasn’t.”

— William Faulkner

380. “But who knows why a man, though suffering, clings, above all the other well members, to the arm or leg which he knows must come off?”

— William Faulkner

381. “Some looked at him as they passed, at the man sitting quietly behind the wheel of a small car, with his invisible life ravelled out about him like a wornout sock.”

— William Faulkner

382. “When he saw the River again he knew it at once. He should have; it was now ineradicably a part of his past, his life; it would be a part of what he would bequeath, if that were in store for him.”

— William Faulkner

383. “The street ran into Oklahoma and Missouri and as far south as Mexico and then back north to Chicago and Detroit and then back south again and at last to Mississippi. It was fifteen years long.”

— William Faulkner

384. “I don’t like the climate, the people, their way of life. Nothing ever happens and then one morning you wake up and find that you are 65.”

— William Faulkner

385. “Then that had passed. It was 1923 and I wrote a book and discovered that my doom, fate, was to keep on writing books: not for any exterior or ulterior purpose: just writing the books for the sake of writing the books;.”

— William Faulkner

386. “Meet Mrs. Bundren, he says.”

— William Faulkner

387. “He is thinking quietly: I should not have got out of the habit of prayer.”

— William Faulkner

388. “He turned into the road at that slow and ponderous gallop, the two of them, man and beast, leaning a little stiffly forward as though in some juggernautish simulation of terrific speed though the actual speed itself was absent, as if in that cold and implacable and undeviating conviction of both omnipotence and clairvoyance of which they both partook known destination and speed were not necessary.”

— William Faulkner

389. “She wasn’t born for this kind of life. You have to be born for this like you have to be born a butcher or a barber, I guess. Wouldn’t anybody be either of them just for money or fun.”

— William Faulkner

390. “When ideas come, I write them; when they don’t come, I don’t.”

— William Faulkner

391. “He’s crossed all the oceans all around the world.”

— William Faulkner

392. “Nowadays he drove the car into town to fetch his grandfather from habit alone, and though he still considered forty five miles an hour merely cruising speed, he no longer took cold and fiendish pleasure in turning curves on two wheels or in detaching mules from wagons by striking the whiffle-trees with his bumper in passing.”

— William Faulkner

393. “What sets a man writhing sleepless in bed at night is not having injured his fellow so much as having been wrong; the mere injury he can efface by destroying the victim and the witness but the mistake is his and that is one of his cats which he always prefers to choke to death with butter.”

— William Faulkner

394. “If somebody tole you, hit could be a lie. But if you dream hit, hit can’t be a lie case ain’t nobody there to tole hit to you.”

— William Faulkner

395. “El lenguaje es como la morfina.”

— William Faulkner

396. “I, the dreamer clinging yet to the dream as the patient clings to the last thin unbearable ecstatic instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain’s surcease, waking into the reality, the more than reality, not to the unchanged and unaltered old time but into a time altered to fit the dream which, conjunctive with the dreamer, becomes immolated and apotheosized.”

— William Faulkner

397. “So you see how much effort a man will make and trouble he will invent to guard and defend himself from the boredom of peace of mind. Or rather perhaps the pervert who deliberately infests himself with lice, not just for the simple pleasure of being rid of them again, since even in the folly of youth we know that nothing lasts; but because even in that folly we are afraid that maybe Nothing will last, that maybe Nothing will last forever, and anything is better than Nothing, even lice.”

— William Faulkner

398. “I don’t think anybody can teach anybody anything. I think that you learn it, but the young writer that is as I say demon-driven and wants to learn and has got to write, he don’t know why, he will learn from almost any source that he finds. He will learn from older people who are not writers, he will learn from writers, but he learns it – you can’t teach it.”

— William Faulkner

399. “A dream is not a very safe thing to be near, Bayard. I know; I had one once. It’s like a loaded pistol with a hair trigger: if it stays alive long enough, somebody is going to be hurt. But if it’s a good dream, it’s worth it. There are not many dreams in the world, but there are a lot of human lives. And one human life or two dozen – – ” “Are not worth anything?” “No. Not anything. – Listen.”

— William Faulkner

400. “The quality an artist must have is objectivity in judging his work, plus the honesty and courage not to kid himself about it.”

— William Faulkner