I'll go to the south of Sicily in the winter, and paint memories of Arles – I'll buy a piano and Mozart me that – I'll write long sad tales about people in the legend of my life – This part is my part of the movie, let's hear yours
Because I cannot write my native language and have no native home anymore, and am amazed by that horrible homelessness of all French-Canadian s abroad in America.
I have been writing my heart out all my life, but only getting a living out of it now.... ... it's not a question of the merit of art, but a question of spontaneity and sincerity and joy I say. I would like everybody in the world to tell his full life confession and tell it his own way and then we'd have something to read in our old age.
It’s a sort of furtiveness … Like we were a generation of furtive. You know, with an inner knowledge there’s no use flaunting on that level, the level of the ‘public’, a kind of beatness – I mean, being right down to it, to ourselves, because we all really know where we are – and a weariness with all the forms, all the conventions of the world … It’s something like that. So I guess you might say we’re a beat generation.
What's your road, man? - holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?
Keep it kickwriting at all costs too, that is, write only what kicks you and keeps you overtime awake from sheer mad joy.
We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell
I am always thinking 'What am I doing here? Is this the way I am supposed to feel?'
..and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didnt know who I was
We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.
I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.
Ah, it was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing.
But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.
Forgive everyone for your own sins and be sure to tell them you love them which you do.
Absolutely no way to escape enigmans.
Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.
I think it's all lovely hallucination but I love it sorta.
You can't teach the old maestro a new tune.
a fool forgetting all the ideals and joys I knew before, in my recent years of drinking and disappointment, what does he care if he hasn't got any money: he doesn't need any money, all he needs is his rucksack with those little plastic bags of dried food and a good pair of shoes and off he goes and enjoys the privileges of a millionaire in surroundings like this.
He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence
A man who allows wild passion to arise within, himself burns his heart, then after burning adds the wind that thereto which ignites the fire again, or not, as the case may be.
As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
This was a manuscript of the night we couldn’t read.
The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.
Cats yawn because they realize that there's nothing to do.
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