Yes, Bastille. I keep trying to get killed because it's inconvenient for you.
America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.
I didn't know the names of the flowers - now my garden is gone.
one must verge on the unknown, write toward the truth hitherto unrecognizable of one’s own sincerity, including the avoidable beauty of doom, shame, and embarrassment, that very area of personal self-recognition,(detailed individual is universal remember) which formal conventions, internalized, keep us from discovering in ourselves and others
Well, while I'm here I'll do the work — and what's the work? To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.
Which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns?
It is well indeed for out land that we of this generation have learned to think nationally.
All of us--all who knew her--felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. We were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness. Her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us, her pain made us glow with health, her awkwardness made us think we had a sense of humor. Her inarticulateness made us believe we were eloquent. Her poverty kept us generous. Even her waking dreams we used--to silence our own nightmares.
I owe a large part of my success to Joe Brown, who helped me both as a player and a person.
There are planes that are not light. There are planes that are shadowy. But that is not our interest in meditation. We want brightness, ecstasy, brilliance beyond comprehension.