Writing is its own reward.
Analysis brings no curative powers in its train; it merely makes us conscious of the existence of an evil, which, oddly enough, is consciousness.
The study of crime begins with the knowledge of oneself. All that you despise, all that you loathe, all that you reject, all that you condemn and seek to convert by punishment springs from you.
And for that one moment of freedom you have to listen to all that love crap... it drive me nuts sometimes... I want to kick them out immediately... I do now and then. But that doesn't keep them away. They like it, in fact. The less you notice them the more they chase after you. There's something perverse about women... they're all masochists at heart.
It is the American vice, the democratic disease which expresses its tyranny by reducing everything unique to the level of the herd.
The sordid qualities imputed to the enemy are always those which we recognize as our own and therefore rise to slay, because only through projection do we realize the enormity and horror of them.
Out yonder they may curse, revile, and torture one another, defile all the human instincts, make a shambles of creation (if it were in their power), but here, no, here, it is unthinkable, here there is abiding peace, the peace of God, and the serene security created by a handful of good neighbors living at one with the creature world.
I'm a bit retarded, like most Americans.
Music is a beautiful opiate, if you don't take it too seriously.
I struggled in the beginning. I said I was going to write the truth, so help me God. And I thought I was. I found I couldn't. Nobody can write the absolute truth.
No one asks you to throw Mozart out of the window. Keep Mozart. Cherish him. Keep Moses too, and Buddha and Lao Tzu and Christ. Keep them in your heart. But make room for the others, the coming ones, the ones who are already scratching on the window-panes.
The City of New York is like an enormous citadel, a modern Carcassonne. Walking between the magnificent skyscrapers one feels the presence on the fringe of a howling, raging mob, a mob with empty bellies, a mob unshaven and in rags.
A world without hope, but no despair
We are swimming on the face of time and all else has drowned, is drowning, or will drown.
Prayers are offered up daily - without charge... Refreshments are served when demanded.
The legal system is often a mystery, and we, its priests, preside over rituals baffling to everyday citizens.
My one thought is to get out of New York, to experience something genuinely American.
The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world.
There is nothing in itself which is wrong or evil not even murder.
The world itself is pregnant with failure, is the perfect manifestation of imperfection, of the consciousness of failure.
Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to her we would all be Jesus Christ today.
The world is two thirds spaghetti and meatballs, one third syphilitic chancre.
Better to separate than never to marry.
Tomorrow you may bring about the destruction of your world. Tomorrow you may sing in Paradise above the smoking ruins of your world-cities. But tonight I would like to think of one man, a lone individual, a man without name or country, a man whom I respect because he has absolutely nothing in common with you - MYSELF. Tonight I shall meditate upon that which I am.
In expanding the field of knowledge we but increase the horizon of ignorance.
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