Davis Grubb

Award won Role or nomination

1. 1919 age 0

   Born

2. 1955 age 36

   CreditThe Night of the Hunterscreenwriter

3. 1980 age 61

   Died

• PGPeter Graves1 title
• CLCharles Laughton1 title
• JGJames Griffith1 title
• LGLillian Gish1 title
• RMRobert Mitchum1 title
• JAJames Agee1 title
• JGJames Gleason1 title
• SWShelley Winters1 title
• DBDon Beddoe1 title
• WSWalter Schumann1 title

• Preacher walks away and stands for a spell staring out the cell window with his long, skinny hands folded behind him. Ben looks at those hands and shivers. What kind of a man would have his fingers tattooed that way? he thinks. The fingers of the right hand, each one with a blue letter beneath the gray, evil skin—L—O—V—E. And the fingers of the left hand done the same way only now the letters spell out H—A—T—E. What kind of a man? What kind of a preacher?

  Davis Grubb, CC BY-SA 4.0

• Salvation! Why, it's always a last-minute business, boy.

  Davis Grubb, CC BY-SA 4.0

• Ming Hang Hung! the words rang faintly through his daydream like echoes of Miz Cunningham's tart little doorbell. Then he looked again at the old woman herself. Why, she was really quite wonderful—this old fat woman! In the end, she got her hands on nearly everything in the world! Just look at her window! There by the pair of old overshoes were Jamey Hankins' ice skates. There was old Walt Spoon's elk's tooth. There—his mother's own wedding ring! There was a world in the window of this remarkable old woman. And it was probable that when Miz Cunningham like an ancient barn owl fluttered and flapped to earth at last, they would take her away and pluck her open and find her belly lined with fur and feathers and the tiny mice skulls of myriad dreams.

  Davis Grubb, CC BY-SA 4.0

• 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.

  Davis Grubb, CC BY-SA 4.0

• It was a warm night for the end of March. Walt had left the front door to the ice-cream parlor open when he went out after supper to gossip with the old men down at Darly Stidger's store. And yet it was not spring, although winter was dead and the moon was sickly with the neitherness of the time between those seasons: those last few weeks before the cries of the green frogs would rise in stitching clamor from the river shores and meadow bogs.

  Davis Grubb, CC BY-SA 4.0

• 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.

  Davis Grubb, CC BY-SA 4.0