Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all that we really have. It is the very last inch of us. But within that inch, we are free... An inch; it is small, and it is fragile, and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away; we must never let them take it from us.
I am tired of this world, these people. I am tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives.
Affected most, they understand the least...
There is a house above the world, where the over-people gather. There is a man with wings like a bird... there is a man who can sea across the planet and wring diamonds from its anthracite. There is a man who moves so fast that his life is an endless gallery of statues... In the house above the world the over-people gather... To a fry, mad voice that whispers of earthdeath.
When it’s done, only our enemies leave roses.
Without my face, nobody knows. Nobody knows who I am.
The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you and you may call me V.
A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having.
Never compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.
Not thou alone, but all humanity doth in its progress fable emulate. Whence came thy rocket-ships and submarine if not from Nautilus, from Cavorite? Your trustiest companions since the cave, we apparitions guided mankind’s tread, our planet, unseen counterpart to thine, as permanent, as ven’rable, as true. On dream’s foundation matter’s mudyards rest. Two sketching hands, each one the other draws: the fantasies thou’ve fashioned fashion thee.
Each day and every deed’s eternal, little boy. Live them in such a way that you can bear to live with them eternally.
Places don’t stay where you left them. You go back there, anywhere, and even if it looks exactly how it did before, it’s somewhere else.
Orwell was almost exactly wrong in a strange way. He thought the world would end with Big Brother watching us, but it ended with us watching Big Brother.
Trust in the fictive process, in the occult interweaving of text and event must be unwavering and absolute. This is the magic place, the mad place at the spark gap between word and world.
Three things, then. Escape, and finding work, and then explaining himself adequately. It was just those areas he had trouble with. Everything else, he was all right about.
The things that are most popular are usually rubbish, stand up for what’s important, not popular.
Finally, faced with horrors both intolerable and unavoidable, I chose madness.
Of course you can. I’m not questioning your powers of observation. I’m merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
The relentless onslaught of this stupefying imagery that pounds our inner landscapes flat, a carpet-bombing of the mind. The language of the world, that overwhelms us.
Give me a platform of ideas and harmonies on which to gesture and unfurl my wings. Give me a place to stand.