We have so many points in common that it is like looking at myself in a cracked mirror.
Though I’ve known you a short time, I feel I know you intimately. Not your life but you, your emotions, your dreams, your aspirations.
One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it’s not a masterpiece you’re doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy.
Nothing is right or wrong but thinking makes it so. You no longer believe in reality but in thinking. And when you are pushed off the dead end your thoughts go with you and they are of no use to you.
Between laughs I could hear my mother’s words ringing in my ears. “Why don’t you write something that will sell?
Everything is endured – disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui – in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable.
I believe everything you tell me, but I know that it will all turn out differently.
Going through the pass, which demands a sort of swastika maneuvering in order to debouch free and clear on the high plateau, I had the impression of wading through phantom seas of blood; the earth was not parched and convulsed in the usual Greek way but bleached and twisted as must have been the mangled, death-stilled limbs of the slain who were left to rot and give their blood here in the merciless sun to the roots of the wild olives which cling to the steep mountain slope with vulturous claws.
What was most annoying was that at first blush people usually took me to be good, to be kind, generous, loyal, faithful. Perhaps I did possess these virtues but if so it was because I was indiferent: I could afford to be good, kind, generous, loyal, and so forth, since I was free of envy. Envy was the one thing I was never a victim of. I have never envied anybody or anything. On the contrary, I have only felt pity for everybody and everything.
If ever there was a guilty age, this is it. Guilt and hysteria. And at the bottom of it all, like an evil dragon, lies Fear.
We must die as egos and be born again in the swarm, not separate and self-hypnotized, but individual and related.
I suffer because of myself. It is my own soul all the time that is bothering me.
Nothing that had happened to me thus far had been sufficient to destroy me; nothing had been destroyed except my illusions. I myself was intact. The world was intact.
In her tight-fitting Persian dress, with turban to match, she looked ravishing.
The poet speaks only to the poet. Spirit answereth spirit. The rest is hogwash.
I would say that the “masterpiece” was the creative act itself and not a particular work which happened to please a large audience and be accepted as the very body of Christ.
We are, most of us, sleepwalkers, and we die without ever opening our eyes.
I was lonely amidst a world of things lit up by phosphorescent flashes of cruelty. I was delirious with an energy which could not be unleashed except in the service of death and futility.
Always a good dodge to simplify your problem by removing it.
If I am a hyena I am a lean and hungry one: I go forth to fatten myself.