We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
We know God is dead, they’ve told us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure.
Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta.
Too often the people complain that they have done nothing with their lives and then they wait for somebody to tell them that this isn’t so.
To fight for each minute is to fight for what is possible within yourself, so that your life and your death will not be like theirs.
To be young is the only religion.
Those faces you see every day on the streets were not created entirely without hope: be kind to them: like you they have not escaped.
This future rolling toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain.
Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.
They experimented on the poor and if that worked they used the treatment on the rich. And if it didn’t work, there would still be more poor left over to experiment upon.
There was nothing glorious about the life of a writer or the life of a drinker.
There is something about writing poetry that brings a man close to the cliff’s edge.
