Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one.
Sleep is the most moronic fraternity in the world, with the heaviest dues and the crudest rituals. It is a mental torture I find debasing... I simply cannot get used to the nightly betrayal of reason, humanity, genius.
Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world's muteness.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.
Genius is finding the invisible link between things.
The contemplation of beauty, whether it be a uniquely tinted sunset, a radiant face, or a work of art, makes us glance back unwittingly at our personal past and juxtapose ourselves and our inner being with the utterly unattainable beauty revealed to us.
There is an old American saying 'He who lives in a glass house should not try to kill two birds with one stone.
Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais!
Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.
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.
Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that's when you get shooting stars.
The writer's job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.
Whatever his secret was, I have learnt one secret too, and namely: that the soul is but a manner of being - not a constant state - that any soul may be yours, if you find and follow its undulations. The hereafter may be the full ability of consciously living in any chosen soul, in any number of souls, all of them unconscious of their interchangeable burden.
Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.
Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.
I have rewritten - often several times - every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
Alas! In vain historians pry and probe: The same wind blows, and in the same live robe Truth bends her head to fingers curved cupwise; And with a woman's smile and a child's care Examines something she is holding there Concealed by her own shoulder from our eyes.
We are most artistically caged.
Some people-and I am one of them-hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically.
I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.
Dear Jesus, do something.
All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.
There are teachers and students with square minds who are by nature meant to undergo the fascination of catagories. For them, 'schools' and 'movements' are everything; by painting a group symbol on the brow of mediocrity, they condone their own incomprehension of true genius.
And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible " and there is absolutely nobody like him.
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple-these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.
in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members.
It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.
Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.