Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly .
I don’t think in any language. I think in images.
The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition.
Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream, exhale, release life’s rapture.
A wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle...
The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.
There is the first satisfaction of arranging it on a bit of paper; after many, many false tries, false moves, finally you have the sentence you recognize as the one you are looking for.
It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.
Genius is finding the invisible link between things.
My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.
Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.
In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.
A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
My God died young. Theolatry i found Degrading, and its premises, unsound. No free man needs God; but was I free?
The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.
I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?