Anyone who maintains absolute standards of good and evil is dangerous. As dangerous as a maniac with a loaded revolver.
He who jokes in the executioners face can be destroyed, but never defeated.
Why procrastinate when you can precognitate?
At birth, we emerge from dream soup. At death, we sink back into dream soup. In between soups, there is a crossing of dry land. Life is a portage.
Life is too small a container for certain individuals. Some of them, such as Alobar, huff and puff and try to expand the container. Others, such as Kudra, seek to pry the lid off and hop out.
On their sofas of spice and feathers, the concubines also slept fretfully. In those days the Earth was still flat, and people dreamed often of falling over edges.
Early religions were like muddy ponds with lots of foliage. Concealed there, the fish of the soul could splash and feed. Eventually, however, religions became aquariums. Then hatcheries. From farm fingerling to frozen fish stick is a short swim.
All a person can do in this life is gather about him his integrity, his imagination, and his individuality – and with these ever with him, out front and in sharp focus, leap into the dance of experience.
Every day is Judgement Day. Always has been. Always will be.
This is the room where Jezebel frescoed her eyelids with history’s tragic glitter.
It is better to be small, colorful, sexy, careless, and peaceful, like the flowers, than large, conservative, repressed, fearful, and aggressive, like the thunder lizards; a lesson, by the way, that the Earth has yet to learn.
Don’t trust anybody who’d rather be grammatically correct than have a good time.
The more advertising I see, the less I want to buy.
What difference does it make if the Gospel is mostly a lie? It’s an engrossing story and the words of its hero are excellent words to live by, even today.
Death is impatient and thoughtless. It barges into your room when you are right in the middle of something, and it doesn’t bother to wipe its boots.
Birth and death were easy. It was life that was hard.
When I go to the shore, I take along the poems of Pablo Neruda. I suppose it’s because the poems are simultaneously lush and ripe and kind of lazy, yet throbbing with life – like summer itself.
Outlaws, like lovers, poets, and tubercular composers who cough blood onto piano keys, do their finest work in the slippery rays of the moon.
People of ze wurl, relax!
Life is like a stew, you have to stir it frequently, or all the scum rises to the top.