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.
Thought is a man in his wholeness, wholly attending.
Tragedy ought really to be a great kick at misery.
Every man has a mob self and an individual self, in varying proportions.
Now man cannot live without some vision of himself. But still less can he live with a vision that is not true to his inner experience and inner feeling.
She let him come further, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft, yet on, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till with a little blind cry, she broke away.
The English people on the whole are surely the nicest people in the world, and everybody makes everything so easy for everyone else, that there is almost nothing to resist at all.
To the Puritan all things are impure, as somebody says.