Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings Quotes
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Who owns Cross Creek? The red-birds, I think, more than I, for they will have their nests even in the face of delinquent mortgages..It seems to me that the earth may be borrowed, but not bought. It may be used, but not owned. It gives itself in response to love and tending, offers its sesonal flowering and fruiting. But we are tenants and not possessors, lovers, and not masters. Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time..."
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It is not that death comes, but that life leaves.
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Lives are only one with living. How dare we, in our egos, claim catastrophe in the rise and fall of the individual entity? There is only Life, and we are beads strung on its strong and endless thread.
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When a wave of love takes over a human being... such an exaltation takes him that he knows he has put his finger on the pulse of the great secret and the great answer.
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He who tries to forget a woman, never loved her
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I had done battle with a great fear and the victory was mine.
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I do not understand how anyone can live without some small place of enchantment to turn to.
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I can only tell you that when long soul-searching and a combination of circumstances delivered me of my last prejudices, there was an exalted sense of liberation. It was not the Negro who became free, but I.
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Fear is the most easily taught of all lessons, and the fight against terror, real or imagined, is perhaps the history of man's mind.
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She lives a sophisticate's life among worldly people. At the slightest excuse she steps out of civilization, naked and relieved, as I should step out of a soiled chemise.
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The individual man is transitory, but the pulse of life and of growth goes on after he is gone, buried under a wreath of magnolia leaves.
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Personal publicity is apt to be dangerous to any writer's integrity; for the moment he begins to fancy himself as quite a person, a taint creeps into his work.
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It's very important to be just to other people. It takes years and years of living to learn that injustice against oneself is always unimportant.
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Life is strong stuff, some of us can bear more of it than others.
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Information can be passed from one to another, like a silver dollar. There's absolutely no wisdom except what you learn for yourself.
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Living was no longer the grief behind him, but the anxiety ahead.
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Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.
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I have found that each of my books has developed out of something I have written in a previous book. Some thought evidently unfinished.
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No, I most certainly do not think advertising people are wonderful. I think they are horrible, and the worst menace to mankind, next to war; perhaps ahead of war. They stand for the material viewpoint, for the importance of possessions, of desire, of envy, of greed. And war comes from these things.
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The best fish in the world are of course those one catches oneself.
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It is impossible to be among the woods animals on their own ground without a feeling of expanding one's own world, as when any foreign country is visited.
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Magic birds were dancing in the mystic marsh. The grass swayed with them, and the shallow waters, and the earth fluttered under them. The earth was dancing with the cranes, and the low sun, and the wind and sky.
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Sorrow was like the wind. It came in gusts.
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Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time.
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Readers themselves, I think, contribute to a book. They add their own imaginations, and it is as though the writer only gave them something to work on, and they did the rest.
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Food imaginatively and lovingly prepared, and eaten in good company, warms the being with something more than the mere intake of calories. I cannot conceive of cooking for friends or family, under reasonable conditions, as being a chore.
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It is not death that kills us, but life. We are done to death by life.
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You can't change a man, no-ways. By the time his mummy turns him loose and he takes up with some innocent woman and marries her, he's what he is.
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A dead tree, falling, made less havoc than a live one. It seemed as though a live tree went down fighting, like an animal.
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Men had reached into the scrub and along its boundaries, had snatched what they could get and had gone away, uneasy in that vast indifferent peace; for a man was nothing, crawling ant-like among the myrtle bushes under the pines. Now they were gone, it was as though they had never been. The silence of the scrub was primordial. The wood-thrush crying across it might have been the first bird in the world-or the last.
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