I have an interior that I never knew of. I see myself lying in my little bed, unable to sleep, and somehow vaguely fore seeing that life would be like that: full of truly strange experiences that are meant for one person alone and can never be spoken.
It could be violent or gentle or melancholy; it could furiously rush to its conclusion , or glide along for what seemed like an eternity.
Life, as it is called, is for most of us one long postponement.
That force which is beyond us, greater than us, obeys its own laws.
It is a turning inside out, a voyaging through X dimensions, with the result that somewhere along the way one discovers that what one has to tell is not nearly so important as the telling itself.
All art, I firmly believe, will one day disappear.
The Search for the Absolute this secret of the philosopher’s stone is discovered by the hero only when he is dying.
What he saw was an endless drama of the self, a whirlpool in which the individual was finally engulfed.
Something is germinating, and those of us who seem most alien, most split, most divorced from the current of life, are the ones who are going forward to create the life as yet inchoate.
Being is burning, in the truest sense, and if there is to be any peace it will come about through being, not having.
which I devoured ravenously.
The men who bore the brunt of the struggle are too sickened and disgusted to show any desire to participate in the rearrangement of the world.
whatever needs to be maintained through force is doomed. .
Not only does he refuse to accept his fears, but worse, he fears his fears. It is the miracle of miracles.
Not only have I never felt the least desire to conserve, bolster up or buttress anything, but I might say that I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.
A blinding consciousness he had, and a tender bleeding heart. I am an exile far from heaven; like a monster, far from earth. But the men who are most representative of their time, those who situate themselves in the creative flux, are always and inevitably rejected, if not crucified.
The fully opened world that has been cleansed of idols is a deathless world.
I had no more than uttered the word happy when his face suddenly changed and, grasping me by both arms with a steely grip, he wheeled me around and gazing into my eyes with a look I shall never forget, he broke forth: “Happy. Swift as flame, elusive, perpetually on the wing, nevertheless there is always in his pictures the iron claw which grasps the unseizable and imprisons it without hurt or damage.
An attempt, in short, to arrive at a total grasp of the universe, and thus keep man anchored in the moving stream of life, which embraces known and unknown.
The light stabs me like a million needles.
I curse and blaspheme.
It is the common, undenominated man who, almost against his will, it would appear, rises to the heights of heroism.
It is more congenial than running about looking for sirloin steaks and chopped onions.
I exist as I am, that is enough
What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?
Out of thy teeming womb thy giant babes in ceaseless procession
and aquatic plants
He bestows on every object or quality its fit proportion
The flush of the known universe is in him
And the noisy brood of the barnyard
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you
The echoes resounding through the vacant building
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream
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