The tree looks like a dog, barking at heaven.
And you have been forever, and will be forever, and all the worrisome smashings of your foot on innocent cupboard doors it was only the Void pretending to be a man pretending not to know the Void.
An awful realization that I have been fooling myself all my life thinking there was a next thing to do to keep the show going and actually I’m just a sick clown and so is everybody else.
Burroughs is the greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift.
Something great is about to happen to me: I’m about to love somebody very much.
I see as much as doors’ll allow, open or shut.
And still the Void is still and’ll never move – But I will be the Void, moving without having moved.
For life is holy and every moment is precious.
Goddamn it, FEELING is what I like in art, not CRAFTINESS and the hiding of feelings.
Why did I allow myself to be bored ever in the past and to compensate for it got high or drunk or rages or all the tricks people have because they want anything but serene understanding of just what there is, which is after all so much.
Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.
I’d better be a poet Or lay down dead.
I realized either I was crazy or the world was crazy; and I picked on the world. And of course I was right.
Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.
I petted the dogs who didn’t argue with me ever. All dogs love God. They’re wiser than their masters.
Cats yawn because they realize that there’s nothing to do.
I suddenly discovered the delight of rebellion.
There’s wisdom in wine.
Absolutely no way to escape enigmans.
I’d also gone through an entire year of celibacy based on my feeling that lust was the direct cause of birth which was the direct cause of suffering and death.