The majority of American writers today have chosen passive non-resistance to things as they are, producing sloughs of poetry about their personal angst and anomie, cascades of short stories and rivers of novels obsessed with the nuances of domestic relationships - suburban hanky-panky - chic boutique shopping mall literary soap opera. When they do speak out on matters of controversy they attack not the evils of our time but fellow writers who may insist on complaining.
Put the park rangers to work. Lazy scheming loafers, they've wasted too many years selling tickets at toll booths and sitting behind desks filling out charts and tables
Every man should be his own guru; every woman her own gurette.
Vaughan Telecom installers and contractors ensure the highest quality service for data and network cabling in Toronto and GTA area.
Suicide: Don't knock it if you ain't tried it.
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.
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 writer has his favorite coterie of enemies: Mine is the East Coast literati -- those prep school playmates and their Ivy League colleagues.
Roosters: The cry of the male chicken is the most barbaric yawp in all of nature.
Critics are like ticks on a dog or tits on a motor: ornamental but dysfunctional.
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.
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)
Belief in God? An afterlife? I believe in rock: this apodictic rock beneath my feet.
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.
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.
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.
To be everywhere at once is to be nowhere forever, if you ask me.
The basic science is not physics or mathematics but biology -- the study of life. We must learn to think both logically and bio-logically.
Mozart, striving for perfection, wrote the same symphony forty-one times. In his case, it worked. He wrote a perfect symphony.
Life without music would be an intolerable insult.
Life imitates art -- but badly.
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.
No man likes to be smoked out of his hole in February.
There has never yet been a human society worthy of the name of civilization. Civilization remains a remote ideal.
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