A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
All my editors since Malcolm Cowley have had instructions to leave my prose exactly as I wrote it. In the days of Malcolm Cowley, with 'On the Road' and 'The Dharma Bums', I had no power to stand by my style for better or for worse.
My father and my mother and my sister and I have always voted Republican, always.
Symbolism is alright in 'fiction,' but I tell true life stories simply about what happened to people I knew.
My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet.
The only people for me are the mad ones: the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who... burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles.
As you get older, you get more... genealogical.
I didn't dictate sections of 'Visions of Cody.' I typed up a segment of taped conversation with Neal Cassady, or Cody, talking about his early adventures in L.A.
I got all my boyhood in vanilla winter waves around the kitchen stove.
Notoriety and public confession in the literary form is a frazzler of the heart you were born with, believe me.
I made myself famous by writing 'songs' and lyrics about the beauty of the things I did and ugliness, too.
The Catholic Church is a weird church. Much mysticism is sown broadspread from its ritual mysteries till it extends into the very lives of its constituents and parishoners.
My story is endless. I put in a teletype roll, you know, you know what they are, you have them in newspapers, and run it through there and fix the margins and just go, go - just go, go, go.
I'm really Wallace Beery in 'The Champ.'
It's hard to write haiku. I write long, silly Indian poems.
I know who the great poets are.
I don't really go out at all.
Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.
On soft Spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars - Something good will come out of all things yet - And it will be golden and eternal just like that - There's no need to say another word.
What does it mean that I am in this endless universe, thinking that I'm a man sitting under the stars on the terrace of the earth, but actually empty and awake throughout the emptiness and awakedness of everything? It means that I'm empty and awake, that I know I'm empty and awake, and that there's no difference between me and anything else.
Listen closely... the eternal hush of silence goes on and on throughout all this, and has been going on, and will go on and on. This is because the world is nothing but a dream and is just thought of and the everlasting eternity pays no attention to it.
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.
Believe in the holy contour of life.
I want to work in revelations, not just spin silly tales for money. I want to fish as deep down as possible into my own subconscious in the belief that once that far down, everyone will understand because they are the same that far down.
I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of "thinking' and "enjoying' what they call "living', I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.
The closer you get to real matter, rock air fire and wood, boy, the more spiritual the world is.
Put down the pen someone else gave you. No one ever drafted a life worth living on borrowed ink.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved.
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
Sure baby, maÃ±ana. It was always maÃ±ana. For the next few weeks that was all I heard""maÃ±ana a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.
Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.
Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.
I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted.
Bop began with Jazz but one afternoon somewhere on a sidewalk maybe 1939, 1940, Dizzy Gillespie or Charlie Parker or Thelonious Monk was walking past a men's clothing store on 42nd Street or South Main in L.A. and from a loudspeaker they suddenly heard a wild impossible mistake in jazz that could only have been heard inside their own imaginary head, and that is a new art. Bop.
Be in love with your life, every detail of it.
Everything is ecstasy inside. We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind [it] is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever.
Because in the end, you won't remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain
Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you're already in heaven now.