This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do.
All of life is a foreign country.
I’m Catholic and I can’t commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.
Genius gives birth, talent delivers.
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
As far as I’m concerned the only thing to do is sit in a room and get drunk.
What’s your road, man? – holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?
Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?
It ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.
And as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our new words.
Ah, life is a gate, a way, a path to Paradise anyway, why not live for fun and joy and love or some sort of girl by a fireside, why not go to your desire and LAUGH...
Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.
Be in love with your life, every detail of it.
The best teacher is experience and not through someone’s distorted point of view.
One night I realized that when you give people understanding and encouragement a funny little meek childish look abashes their eyes, no matter what they’ve been doing they weren’t sure it was right – lambies all over the world.
My witness is the empty sky.
The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
I think it’s a lovely hallucination but I love it sorta.
Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain’t this and that at all?