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Davis Grubb Quotes
1919–1980 United States
Davis Alexander Grubb (July 23, 1919 – July 24, 1980) was an American novelist and short story writer, best known for his 1953 novel The Night of the Hunter, which was
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Christmastide and a good heart’s breath against a cold pane are enough to bring lost faces back in evergreen eternity.
Deep in the brush filth above the north pasture a rabbit gave the shrill death cry before the soft owl fell from the moon, and she thought: 'Deed, it's a hard world for little things.
Is goodness just for Sundays and is love just for Christmas? Must the living fragrance of human love be packed away with the tree ornaments once Christmas day is past?
Hate, my gentle lady, said Captain Anschutz, is only Love that has lost its way home in the dark.
Salvation! Why, it's always a last-minute business, boy.
When you tell a lie it must be to keep from saying a worse thing. Then lying is not a Sin and God will not punish you. (But what if God is one of them?)
Miz Cooper says don't pay her no mind because she is most likely one of them Duck River Baptists and probably a Republican to boot and we just went on home down the street.
Lord save little children! They abide. The wind blows and the rain is cold. Yet, they abide.
It was as if, within that still winter night's vastness a strange soft-feathered bird of passage had come to beat its hopeless wings against the windows of her heart.
Toby sighs and sees his breath suddenly being upon the icy window pane and that printed breath is a faith that already ancient, faery legions of the Ice King are bearing his letter high and away for the right eyes to read.
I am afraid of Mr. Powell. I am more afraid of him than I have ever been of shadows or the thunder or when you look through the little bubble in the glass of the window in the upstairs hall and all of the out-of-doors stretches and twists its neck.
He thought again of the watch in the window. It had twelve black numbers on its moon face and there was magic to that. For these were numbers that were not really numbers at all but letters like in words. He shivered at the possibilities of such untold magic.
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