I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.
The taste of rain -- Why kneel?
Ah, it was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing.
But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.
Absolutely no way to escape enigmans.
Forgive everyone for your own sins and be sure to tell them you love them which you do.
Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.
You can't teach the old maestro a new tune.
I think it's all lovely hallucination but I love it sorta.
And I will die, and you will die, and we all will die, and even the stars will fade out one after another in time.
He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence
A man who allows wild passion to arise within, himself burns his heart, then after burning adds the wind that thereto which ignites the fire again, or not, as the case may be.
a fool forgetting all the ideals and joys I knew before, in my recent years of drinking and disappointment, what does he care if he hasn't got any money: he doesn't need any money, all he needs is his rucksack with those little plastic bags of dried food and a good pair of shoes and off he goes and enjoys the privileges of a millionaire in surroundings like this.
As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.
John Clellon Holmes... and I were sitting around trying to think up the meaning of the Lost Generation and the subsequent existentialism and I said 'You know John, this is really a beat generation'; and he leapt up and said, 'That's it, that's right!'
This was a manuscript of the night we couldn’t read.
The Beat Generation, that was a vision that we had, John Clellon Holmes and I, and Allen Ginsberg in an even wilder way, in the late forties, of a generation of crazy, illuminated hipsters suddenly rising and roaming America, serious, bumming and hitchhiking everywhere, ragged, beatific, beautiful in an ugly graceful new way.
Will you love me in December as you do in May?
At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.
All is well, practice kindness, heaven is nigh.
It ain't whatcha write, it's the way atcha write it.
The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled - Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon field; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments.
Cats yawn because they realize that there's nothing to do.
We agreed to love each other madly.
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