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.
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.
A house o' women is as dead as a house wi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'm not a spider as likes to corner myself. I like a man about, if he's only something to snap at.
Whatever God there is is slowly eliminating the guts and alimentary system from the human being, to evolve a higher, more spiritual being.
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--
Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.
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.
The mystery of the evening-star brilliant in silence and distance between the downward-surging plunge of the sun and the vast, hollow seething of inpouring night. The magnificence of the watchful morning-star, that watches between the night and the day, the gleaming clue to the two opposites.
Not that the Red Indian will ever possess the broad lands of America. At least I presume not. But his ghost will.
Homer was wrong in saying, "Would that strife might pass away from among gods and men!" He did not see that he was praying for the destruction of the universe.
It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.
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.
Don't be sucked in by the su-superior, don't swallow the culture bait, don't drink, don't drink and get beerier and beerier, do learn to discriminate.
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.
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.
Sex and a cocktail: they both lasted about as long, had the same effect, and amounted to about the same thing.
There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.
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.
Only in a novel are all things given full play.
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.
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.
Protestantism came and gave a great blow to the religious and ritualistic rhythm of the year, in human life. Non-conformity almostfinished the deed.... Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos, and the permanence of marriage.
The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.
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