My great religion is a belief in the blood, the flesh, as being wiser than the intellect. We can go wrong in our minds. But what our blood feels and believes and says, is always true. The intellect is only a bit and a bridle.
I hate the actor and audience business. An author should be in among the crowd, kicking their shins or cheering them on to some mischief or merriment.
We have to hate our immediate predecessors to get free of their authority.
The true artist doesn’t substitute immorality for morality. On the contrary, he always substitutes a finer morality for a grosser one.
The refined punishments of the spiritual mode are usually much more indecent and dangerous than a good smack.
The proper study of mankind is man in his relation to his deity.
The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?
The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.
Once you abstract from this, once you generalize and postulate Universals, you have departed from the creative reality, and entered the realm of static fixity, mechanism, materialism.
God doesn’t know things. He is things.
The map appears to us more real than the land.
The world is wonderful and beautiful and good beyond one’s wildest imagination.
The acrid scents of autumn, Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear.
Sex and beauty are inseparable, like life and consciousness. And the intelligence which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.
Evil, what is evil? There is only one evil, to deny life As Rome denied Etruria And mechanical America Montezuma still.
I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don’t.
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.
You love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.
Don’t be on the side of the angels, it’s too lowering.
Sleep is a hint of lovely oblivion.