Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.
The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.' You won't believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.
Words are the clothes thoughts wear.
You're on earth. There's no cure for that.
Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.
Nothing is more real than nothing.
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.
Yesterday is not a milestone that has been passed, but a daystone on the beaten track of the years, and irremediably part of us, within us, heavy and dangerous. We are not merely more weary because of yesterday, we are other, no longer what we were before the calamity of yesterday.
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up there with the rest. Hovel and stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful.
Perhaps that's what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that's what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle, I'm the partition, I've two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that's what I feel, myself vibrating, I'm the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don't belong to either.
So all things limp together for the only possible.
The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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