Anarchy works. Italy has proved it for a thousand years.
Of all the featherless beasts, only man, chained by his self-imposed slavery to the clock, denies the elemental fire and proceeds as best he can about his business, suffering quietly, martyr to his madness. Much to learn.
Nothing can excel a few days in jail for giving a young man or woman a quick education in the basis of industrial society.
Little boys love machines; girls adore horses; grown-up men and women like to walk.
If wilderness is outlawed, only outlaws can save wilderness.
If the world is irrational, we can never know it -- either it or its irrationality.
My own best books have not been published. In fact, they've not even been written yet.
Orthodoxy is a relaxation of the mind accompanied by a stiffening of the heart.
The consolation of reading biography: Most great men have led lives even more miserable than our own.
In a nation of sheep, one brave man forms a majority.
The writer concerned more with technique than truth becomes a technician, not an artist.
Writing on the wall: Will trade three blind crabs for two with no teeth.
A good book is a kind of paper club, serving to rouse the slumbrous and to silence the obtuse.
I always write with my .357 magnum handy. Why? Well, you never know when God may try to interfere.
In the afternoon I watch the clouds drift past the bald peak of Mount Tukuhnikivats. (Someone has to do it.)
Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.
Life: another day, another dolor.
Beware the writer who always encloses the word *reality* in quotation marks: He's trying to slip something over on you. Or into you.
War? The one war I'd be happy to join is the war against officers.
The tragic sense of life: our heroic acceptance of the suffering of others.
We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope.
Most of us lead lives of chaotic improvisation from day to day, bawling for peace while plunging grimly into fresh disorders.
Though men now possess the power to dominate and exploit every corner of the natural world, nothing in that fact implies that they have the right or the need to do so.
We are befouling and destroying our own home, we are committing a slow but accelerating race suicide and life murder - planetary biocide. Now there is a mighty theme for a mighty book but a challenge to which no modern novelist or poet has yet responded. Where is our Melville, our Milton, our Thomas Mann when we need him most?
How could anything non-controversial be of intellectual interest to grown-ups?
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