So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once. So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
What does it mean that I am in this endless universe, thinking that I'm a man sitting under the stars on the terrace of the earth, but actually empty and awake throughout the emptiness and awakedness of everything? It means that I'm empty and awake, that I know I'm empty and awake, and that there's no difference between me and anything else.
Some of my most neurotically fierce bitterness is the result of realizing how untrue people have become.
Something good will come out of all things yet — And it will be golden and eternal just like that.
Pretty girls make graves
The fact that everybody in the world dreams every night ties all mankind together.
My shoes are clean from walking in the rain.
I felt free and therefore I was free.
All of life is a foreign country.
I promise I shall never give up, and that I'll die yelling and laughing, and that until then I'll rush around this world I insist is holy and pull at everyone's lapel and make them confess to me and to all.
A sociable smile is nothing but a mouth full of teeth.
It's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies
You are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration
I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.
Believe in the holy contour of life.
Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?
Let nature do the freezing and frightening and isolating in this world. let men work and love and fight it off.
I suddenly discovered the delight of rebellion.
Desolation, desolation, I owe so much to desolation.
If critics say your work stinks it's because they want it to stink and they can make it stink by scaring you into conformity with their comfortable little standards. Standards so low that they can no longer be considered "dangerous" but set in place in their compartmental understandings.
I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.
I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
You'd be surprised how little I knew even up to yesterday
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