Oh the innocent girl in her maiden teens knows perfectly well what everything means.
I believe that a man is converted when first he hears the low, vast murmur of life, of human life, troubling his hitherto unconscious self.
One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.
There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.
They wanted genuine intimacy, but they could not get even normally near to anyone, because they scorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which forms common human intercourse.
That's how women are with me " said Paul. "They want me like mad but they don't want to belong to me.
How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene and dead ideas become obsessions.
You're always begging things to love you," he said, "as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--
The artist usually sets out -- or used to -- to point a moral and adorn a tale. The tale, however, points the other way, as a rule. Two blankly opposing morals, the artist's and the tale's. Never trust the artist. Trust the tale. The proper functions of a critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.
A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand over the demon's mouth sometimes and speaks for him. And the things the young man says are very rarely poetry.
I think societal instinct much deeper than sex instinct — and societal repression much more devastating.
You can have your cake and eat it. But my God, it will go rotten inside you.
It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.
America does to me what I knew it would do: it just bumps me. The people charge at you like trucks coming down on you -- no awareness. But one tries to dodge aside in time. Bump! bump! go the trucks. And that is human contact.
Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.
Only in a novel are all things given full play.
The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.
Love's a dog in a manger.
I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes -- those bursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from the open tiptoeing into the forests.
Sex and a cocktail: they both lasted about as long, had the same effect, and amounted to about the same thing.
Whatever God there is is slowly eliminating the guts and alimentary system from the human being, to evolve a higher, more spiritual being.
We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying and nothing will stay the death-flood rising within us and soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.
The spirit of the place is a strange thing. Our mechanical age tries to override it. But it does not succeed. In the end the strange, sinister spirit of the place, so diverse and adverse in differing places, will smash our mechanical oneness into smithereens.
One man isn't any better than another, not because they are equal, but because they are intrinsically other, that there is no termof comparison.
Not that the Red Indian will ever possess the broad lands of America. At least I presume not. But his ghost will.
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