It ain't whatcha write, it's the way atcha write it.
John Clellon Holmes... and I were sitting around trying to think up the meaning of the Lost Generation and the subsequent existentialism and I said 'You know John, this is really a beat generation'; and he leapt up and said, 'That's it, that's right!'
Cats yawn because they realize that there's nothing to do.
Will you love me in December as you do in May?
At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.
-no girl had ever moved me with a story of spiritual suffering and so beautifully her soul showing out radiant as an angel wandering in hell and the hell the selfsame streets I'd roamed in watching, watching for someone just like her and never dreaming the darkness and the mystery and eventuality of our meeting in eternity.
We agreed to love each other madly.
Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?
And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?
I just won't sleep," I decided. There were so many other interesting things to do.
It was all completely serious, all completely hallucinated, all completely happy.
Marylou was watching Dean as she had watched him clear across the country and back, out of the corner of her eye--with a sullen, sad air, as though she wanted to cut off his head and hide it in her closet, an envious and rueful love of him so amazingly himself, all raging and sniffy and crazy-wayed, a smile of tender dotage but also sinister envy that frightened me about her, a love she knew would never bear fruit because when she looked at his hangjawed bony face with its male self-containment and absentmindedness she knew he was too mad.
And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
In all this welter of women I still hadn't got one for myself, not that I was trying too hard, but sometimes I felt lonely to see everybody paired off and having a good time and all I did was curl up in my sleeping bag in the rosebushes and sigh and say bah. For me it was just red wine in my mouth and a pile of firewood
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea.
Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again.
I was a man of the earth, precisely as I had dreamed I would be.
Burroughs is the greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift.
all day long wearing a hat that wasn't on my head
The cause of the world's woe is birth, the cure of the world's woe is a bent stick.
The human bones are but vain lines dawdling, the whole universe a blank mold of stars.
Prison is where you promise yourself the right to live.
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.
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