I want to see you. I feel more and more at with you now actually than ever before, I feel you more, actually more clarity, more confidence, more trust.
I feel my life is sterile, I am unbloomed, unused, I have nothing I can have that I will ever want, only some love, only dearness and tenderness, to make me weep. I am moved now and sad and unhappy beyond cold unhappiness, beyond any inconvenience that will cause you by my affection.
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower?
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to heaven!
No point writing when the spirit doth not lead.
How mercy gets to exist, where it comes from, perhaps can be seen from the inner evidence and images of the poem – an act of self-realization, self acceptance and the consequent and inevitable relaxation of protective anxiety and self hood and the ability to see and love others in themselves as angels without stupid mental self deceiving moral categories selecting who it is safe to sympathize with and who is not safe.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I’m with you in Rockland, where we are great writers on this same dreadful typewriter.
The message is: Widen the area of consciousness.
Without even intending it, there is that little shiver of a moment in time preserved in the crystal cabinet of the mind. A little shiver of internal space. That’s what I was looking for.
Nobody wants to hear about your feelings, darling, tell me what you see!
I am bored with these frantic cravings, tired of them and therefore myself, and contemptuous though tolerant of all my vast powers of self-pity and self-expressive misery.
I hadn’t thought about what any army trains for. It merely maintains itself here for no exterior purpose.
Why are you afraid to submit to the annihilation of such stupid meaningless unreal knowledge. This is the abyss. Everything is green, love, without the logical fantastic equivocations that we invent so that we won’t actually have to face each other.
The most important thing about dreams is the existence in them of magical emotions, to which waking consciousness is not ordinarily sentient. Awe of vast constructions; familiar eternal halls of buildings; sexual intensity in rapport; deathly music; grief awakenings, perfected lodgings.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
It’s too bad our problems are not solved more easily. But that is an old stupid complaint. Still the others are stupid. It is as if to save ourselves we had to save them too. That is why genius must suffer- it has to bear the burdens of the whole world. Our happiness and reality depends on the happiness and reality of others.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.
Death which is the mother of the universe! – Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky – no revolution might destroy that maidenhood.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman?