Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.
I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future.
There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
I suddenly began to realize that everybody in America is a natural-born thief.
Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow (p. 148)
Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.
I felt free and therefore I was free.
In our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever...listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, It is all one vast awakened thing. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It's a dream already ended.
Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.
But on top of all that, the feelings about Princess, I'd also gone through an entire year of celibacy based on my feeling that lust was the direct cause of birth which was the direct cause of suffering and death and I had really no lie come to a point where I regarded lust as offensive and even cruel. "Pretty girls make graves," was my saying, whenever I'd had to turn my head around involuntarily to stare at the incomparable pretties of Indian Mexico.
We tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.
I'd better be a poet Or lay down dead.
A sociable smile is nothing but a mouth full of teeth.
They build their own Hells.
Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.
As far as I'm concerned the only thing to do is sit in a room and get drunk
Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.
I'm not a beatnik. I'm a Catholic.
my karma was to be born in America where nobody has any fun or believes in anything, especially freedom.
Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running - that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach.
ah, you always go for the ones who don't really want you
The Four Inevitabilities: 1. Musty Books. 2. Uninteresting Nature. 3. Dull Existence. 4. Blank Nirvana, buy that boy.
But, outside of being a sweet little girl, she was awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things.
There are worse things than being mad.
I didn't know what to say. I felt like crying, Goddammit everybody in the world wants an explanation for your acts and for your very being.
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