I have thought that men and women should never come together except in bed. There is the only place where their natural hatred of each other is not so apparent.
The great concepts of oneness and of majestic order seem always to be born in the desert.
We have to make a mark, even if it’s only a scribble.
Only let a man say that he will do something and a whole mechanism goes to work to stop him.
For many years we have suckled on fear and fear alone, and there is no good product of fear.
This I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual.
Some men hunger so much for love that they lose everything that is loveable about them.
I have the instincts of a minstrel rather than those of a scrivener. There you have it. We are not of the same trade at all and so how can your rules fit me?
I have no interest in the printed word. I would continue to write if there were no writing and no print. I put my words down for a matter of memory. They are more made to be spoken than to be read.
It is a nice thing to be working and believing in my work again. I hope I can keep the drive. I only feel whole and well when it is this way.
For the first time I am working on a book that is not limited and that will take every bit of experience and thought and feeling that I have.
I seen too many guys with land in their head. They never get none under their hand.
You ain’t worth a greased lack pin to ram you into hell.
I find it valid to understand man as an animal before I am prepared to know him as a man.
The warfare between the unaroused male and female is constant and ferocious. Each blames the other for his loss of soul.
It was too nerve-wracking, a shocking spectacle, like seeing an old, calm friend go insane.
American married life is the doormat to the whorehouse.
A kind of second childhood falls on so many men. They trade their violence for the promise of a small increase of life span. In effect, the head of the house becomes the youngest child.
Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain...
Poetry is the mathematics of writing and closely kin to music.