That which today calls itself science gives us more and more information, and indigestible glut of information, and less and less understanding.
For myself I hold no preferences among flowers, so long as they are wild, free, spontaneous. Bricks to all greenhouses! Black thumb and cutworm to the potted plant!
We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire—a crackpot machine—that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate. We are, most of us, dependent employees. …Edward Abbey (1927-1989)
What we need now are heroes and heroines, about a million of them, one brave deed is worth a thousand books. Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.
I am hopeful, though not full of hope, and the only reason I don't believe in happy endings is because I don't believe in endings.
To the Technocrats: Have mercy on us. Relax a bit, take time out for simple pleasures. For example, the luxuries of electricity, indoor plumbing, central heating, instant electronic communication and such, have taught me to relearn and enjoy the basic human satisfactions of dipping water from a cold clear mountain stream; of building a wood fire in a cast-iron stove; of using long winter nights for making music, making things, making love; of writing long letters, in longhand with a fountain pen, to the few people on this earth I truly care about.
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Literature, like anything else, can become a wearisome business if you make a lifetime specialty of it. A healthy, wholesome man would no more spend his entire life reading great books than he would packing cookies for Nabisco.
Every man should be his own guru; every woman her own gurette.
Girls, like flowers, bloom but once. But once is enough.
To be everywhere at once is to be nowhere forever, if you ask me.
Belief in God? An afterlife? I believe in rock: this apodictic rock beneath my feet.
The death penalty would be even more effective, as a deterrent, if we executed a few innocent people more often.
There has never yet been a human society worthy of the name of civilization. Civilization remains a remote ideal.
Life imitates art -- but badly.
Life without music would be an intolerable insult.
No man likes to be smoked out of his hole in February.
Every writer has his favorite coterie of enemies: Mine is the East Coast literati -- those prep school playmates and their Ivy League colleagues.
Salome had but seven veils; the artist has a thousand.
In the modern world, all literary art is necessarily political -- especially that which pretends not to be.
Critics are like ticks on a dog or tits on a motor: ornamental but dysfunctional.
The response to my books from my East Coast friends has been wildly various, running the gamut from 'bad' to 'very bad.' (Is there another gamut?)
When riding my old Harley a ninety per at midnight down the Via Roma in Naples, I kept one consolation firmly in mind: If anything goes wrong, I'll never have time to regret it.
How did Haydn and Mozart produce such vast quantities of formally perfect art? They worked from a perfect formula. In music, Beethoven was the Great Emancipator.
Mozart, striving for perfection, wrote the same symphony forty-one times. In his case, it worked. He wrote a perfect symphony.
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