There's wisdom in wine.
When you start separating people from their rivers, what have you got? Bureaucracy!
and nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old
And as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our new words.
Pretty girls make graves
Something good will come out of all things yet — And it will be golden and eternal just like that.
If critics say your work stinks it's because they want it to stink and they can make it stink by scaring you into conformity with their comfortable little standards. Standards so low that they can no longer be considered "dangerous" but set in place in their compartmental understandings.
The empty blue sky of space says 'All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don't care, it still belongs to me
Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.
Contrary to the general belief about photography, you don't need bright sunlight: the best moodiest pictures are taken in the dim light of almost dusk, or of rainy days.
My aunt once said that the world would never find peace until men fell at their women's feet and asked for forgiveness.
Some's bastards, some's ain't. That's the score.
In our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever...listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, It is all one vast awakened thing. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It's a dream already ended.
I rather like the idea of having all my hours to myself: eating a Fudge Sundae, watching a movie, sleeping on my couch, singing in the bathroom, studying the woods, kidding around with a girl, playing cards lazily - all kinds of stuff that American brands 'shiftless.'
I'd rather hop freights around the country and cook my food out of tin cans over wood fires, than be rich and have a home or work.
Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.
Bop began with Jazz but one afternoon somewhere on a sidewalk maybe 1939, 1940, Dizzy Gillespie or Charlie Parker or Thelonious Monk was walking past a men's clothing store on 42nd Street or South Main in L.A. and from a loudspeaker they suddenly heard a wild impossible mistake in jazz that could only have been heard inside their own imaginary head, and that is a new art. Bop.
They build their own Hells.
What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.
After all, a homeless man has reason to cry, everything in the world is pointed against him.
There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow (p. 148)
If moderation is a fault, then indifference is a crime.
A sociable smile is nothing but a mouth full of teeth.
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