Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings was an American author who lived in rural Florida and wrote novels with rural themes and settings. Her best known work, The Yearling, about a boy who adopts an orphaned fawn, won a Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1939 and was later made into a movie of the same name. The book was written long before the concept of young-adult fiction, but is now commonly included in teen-reading lists...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionAuthor
Date of Birth8 August 1896
CountryUnited States of America
Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.
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.
We need above all, I think, a certain remoteness from urban confusion.
A part of the placidity of the South comes from the sense of well-being that follows the heart-and-body-warming consumption of breads fresh from the oven. We serve cold baker's bread to our enemies, trusting that they will never impose on our hospitality again.
Sift each of us through the great sieve of circumstance and you have a residue, great or small as the case may be, that is the man or the woman.
the truth is artistically fallacious.
Madness is only a variety of mental nonconformity and we are all individualists here.
But to make the intangible tangible, to pick the emotion out of the air and make it true for others, is both the blessing and the curse of the writer, for the thing between book covers is never as beautiful as the thing he imagined.
Garlic, like perfume, must be used with discretion and on the proper occasions.
The best fish in the world are of course those one catches oneself.
They were all too tightly bound together, men and women, creatures wild and tame, flowers, fruits and leaves, to ask that any one be spared. As long as the whole continued, the earth could go about its business.
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.
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.
Here in Florida the seasons move in and out like nuns in soft clothing, making no rustle in their passing.