At one time I thought the most important thing was talent. I think now that — the young man or the young woman must possess or teach himself, train himself, in infinite patience, which is to try and to try and to try until it comes right. He must train himself in ruthless intolerance. That is, to throw away anything that is false no matter how much he might love that page or that paragraph. The most important thing is insight, that is ... curiosity to wonder, to mull, and to muse why it is that man does what he does. And if you have that, then I don't think the talent makes much difference, whether you've got that or not.]

— William Faulkner

A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction.

— William Faulkner

A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid.

— William Faulkner

[B]because the second time I ever saw you I learned what I had read in books, but I never had actually believed: that love and suffering are the same thing and that the value of love is the sum of what you have to pay for it and anytime you get it cheap you have cheated yourself.

— William Faulkner

Because you know that's all I need, all I want, is for you to try to run, to turn your back on me and run. I know you ain't going to. Because all you got to beat is me. I got to beat old Car others. Get your pistol."" No," the other said. "Go home. Get out of here. Tonight I will come to your house-----""After this?" Lucas said. "Me and you, in the same country, breathing the same air even? No matter what you could say, what you could even prove, so I would have to believe it, after this? Get your pistol.

— William Faulkner

But something held him, as the fatalist can always be held: by curiosity, pessimism, by sheer inertia.

— William Faulkner

But this time as soon as he moved she began to fade. He stopped at once, not breathing again, motionless, willing his eyes to see that she had stopped too. But she had not stopped. She was fading, going. "Wait," he said, talking as sweet as he had ever heard his voice speak to a woman: "Den let me go did you, honey." But she was going.

— William Faulkner

Caddy got the box and set it on the floor and opened it. It was full of stars. When I was still, they were still. When I moved, they glinted and sparkled. I hushed.

— William Faulkner

Civilization begins with distillation

— William Faulkner

Don't be 'a writer.' Be writing.

— William Faulkner