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Brion Gysin Biography

Brion Gysin (19 January 1916 – 13 July 1986) was a painter, writer, sound poet, and performance artist born in Taplow, Buckinghamshire.

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Brion Gysin Quotes

The poets are supposed to liberate the words – not chain them in phrases. Who told the poets they were supposed to think? Poets are meant to sing and to make words sing. Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? 'Your very own words,' indeed! And who are you?

Phrases, Poet, Sing, Thinking, Writers

The resulting texts always took a narrative term, enigmatic at first but ultimately explicit and often premonitory. The semantic distribution of these basic elements diverted them from their original meaning, thus revealing their real significance. Henceforth, every form of writing will consist of an operation of decoding, of contamination, and of sense perversion. All this because all language is essentially mystification, and everything is fiction.

Distribution, Firsts, Henceforth, Real, Resulting, Writing

You should never do two things. You should hammer one nail all your life, and I didn't do that; I hammered on a lot of nails like a xylophone.

Hammer, Hammers, Nail, Nails, Two, Xylophone

Man is a bad animal.

Animal, Bad, Man, Men

I enjoy inventing things out of fun. After all, life is a game, not a career.

Careers, Enjoy, Fun, Game, Games, Things

As no two people see the world the same way, all trips from here to there are imaginary; all truth is a tale I am telling myself.

People, Telling, Trips, Two, World

When ya gotta goNow we know what we are here for. We are not here to love fear and serve any old bearded but invisible thunder god. We are here to go.

Fear Of Love, God, Invisible, Old, Serve, Thunder

What are we here for? Does the great metaphysical nut revolve around that? Well, I'll crack it for you, right now. What are we here for? We are here to go!

Cracks, Doe, Metaphysical, Nut, Nuts, Revolve

I could easily blast so much keef night and day I become a bouhali; a real-gone crazy, a holy untouchable madman unto whom everything is permitted, nothing is true.

Crazy, Real, Night, Become, Untouchable

Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody. "Your very own words," indeed ! And who are you?

Belong, Words, Writers

Of course the sands of Present Time are running out from under our feet. And why not? The Great Conundrum: 'What are we here for?' is all that ever held us here in the first place. Fear. The answer to the Riddle of the Ages has actually been out in the street since the First Step in Space. Who runs may read but few people run fast enough. What are we here for? Does the great metaphysical nut revolve around that? Well, I'll crack it for you, right now. What are we here for? We are here to go!

Feet, Nuts, People, Running, Street

Writing is fifty years behind painting.

Fifty, Painting, Writing, Years