Words are loneliness.
The American white man (not to speak of the Indian, the Negro, the Mexican) hasn't a ghost of a chance. If he has any talent he's doomed to have it crushed one way or another. The American way is to seduce a man by bribery and make a prostitute of him. Or else to ignore him, starve him into submission and make a hack of him.
Imagination is the voice of the daring.
Those who are truly decrepit, living corpses, so to speak, are the middle-aged, middle-class men and woman who are stuck in their comfortable grooves and imagine that the status quo will least forever or else are so frightened it won't, that they have retreated into their mental bomb shelters to wait it out.
For one crime which is expiated in prison ten thousand are committed thoughtlessly by those who condemn.
I wanted to feel the blood running back into my veins, even at the cost of annihilation. I wanted to shake the stone and light out of my system. I wanted the dark fecundity of nature, the deep well of the womb, silence, or else the lapping of the black waters of death. I wanted to be that night which the remorseless eye illuminated, a night diapered with stars and trailing comets. To be of night so frighteningly silent, so utterly incomprehensible and eloquent at the same time. Never more to speak or to listen or to think.
Keep your exclamation points under control!
Writing, like life itself, is a voyage of discovery.
In every man's heart there is anchored a little schooner.
Somewhere along the way one discovers that what one has to tell is not nearly so important as the telling itself.
Topographically the country is magnificent - and terrifying. Why terrifying? Because nowhere else in the world is the divorce between man and nature so complete. Nowhere have I encountered such a dull, monotonous fabric of life as here in America. Here boredom reaches its peak.
My hunger and curiosity drive me forward in all directions at once.
The man who is forever disturbed about the condition of humanity either has no problems of his own or has refused to face them.
Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy; I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of them is not my concern.
If the poet can no longer speak for society, but only for himself, then we are at the last ditch.
Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of any help except by being kind, generous, and patient.
Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.
When you can't create you can work
To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.
With this book in my hands, reading aloud to my friends, questioning them, explaining to them, I was made clearly to understand that I had no friends, that I was alone in the world. Because in not understanding the meaning of the words, neither I nor my friends, one thing became very clear and that was that there were ways of not understanding and that the difference between the non-understanding of one individual and the non-understanding of another created a world of terra firma even more solid than differences of understanding.
My world of human beings had perished. I was utterly alone in the world and for friends I had the streets, and the streets spoke to me in that sad, bitter language compounded of human misery, yearning, regret, failure, wasted effort
Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.
The world is the mirror of myself dying.
Madness is tonic and invigorating. It makes the sane more sane. The only ones who are unable to profit by it are the insane.
The light of Greece opened my eyes, penetrated my pores, expanded my whole being.
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