A scene should be selected by the writer for haunted-ness-of-mind interest. If you're not haunted by something, as by a dream, a vision, or a memory, which are involuntary, you're not interested or even involved.
"What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.
I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
There is universal substance which is divine substance because where else can it be?
Houses are full of things that gather dust
Now the mountains were getting that pink tinge, I mean the rocks, they were just solid rock covered with the atoms of dust accumulated there since beginningless time. In fact I was afraid of those jagged monstrosities all around and over our heads. "They're so silent!" I said. "Yeah man, you know to me a mountain is a Buddha. Think of the patience, hundreds of thousands of years just sitting there bein perfectly perfectly silent and like praying for all living creatures in that silence and just waitin for us to stop all our frettin and foolin.
Vanity of vanities… all is vanity.’ You kill yourself to get to the grave. Especially you kill yourself to get to the grave before you die; and the name of the grave is ‘success’, the name of that grave is hullabullo boom boom horseshit.
Avoid the world, it's just a lot of dust and drag and means nothing in the end.
An awful realization that I have been fooling myself all my life thinking there was a next thing to do to keep the show going and actually I'm just a sick clown and so is everybody else
A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
You can't fight City Hall. It keeps changing its name.
No matter how you travel, how 'successful' your tour, or foreshortened, you always learn something and learn to change your thoughts.
stick at it like a benni addict
and silence is the golden mountain
Because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars.
Isn't it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father's roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.
I took a straight picture that made me look like a thirty-year-old Italian who'd kill anybody who said something against his mother.
Because the only people for me are the mad ones.
The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas; and you could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical exhalation, with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter.
In my madness I was actually in love with her for the few hours it all lasted; it was the same unmistakable ache and stab across the mind, the same sighs, the same pain, and above all the same reluctance and fear to approach.
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition.
I believed in a good home, in sane and sound living, in good food, good times, work, faith and hope. I have always believed in these things. It was with some amazement that I realized I was one of the few people in the world who really believed in these things without going around making a dull middle class philosophy out of it. I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
If you own a rug you own too much.
Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that cramp they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume.
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