Something great is about to happen to me: I'm about to love somebody very much.
all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.
Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?
Genius gives birth, talent delivers.
You can't live in this world but there's nowhere else to go.
Something that you feel will find its own form.
Listen closely... the eternal hush of silence goes on and on throughout all this, and has been going on, and will go on and on. This is because the world is nothing but a dream and is just thought of and the everlasting eternity pays no attention to it.
I petted the dogs who didn't argue with me ever. All dogs love God. They're wiser than their masters.
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
I don't know, I don't care, and it doesn't make any difference.
I rather like the idea of having all my hours to myself: eating a Fudge Sundae, watching a movie, sleeping on my couch, singing in the bathroom, studying the woods, kidding around with a girl, playing cards lazily - all kinds of stuff that American brands 'shiftless.'
Some of my most neurotically fierce bitterness is the result of realizing how untrue people have become.
My shoes are clean from walking in the rain.
An awful realization that I have been fooling myself all my life thinking there was a next thing to do to keep the show going and actually I'm just a sick clown and so is everybody else
Finding Nirvana is like locating silence.
I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
It's okay, girl, we'll make it till the sun goes down forever. And until then what you got to lose but the losing? We're fallen angels who didn't believe that nothing means nothing.
Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?
I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.
If you tell a true story, you can't be wrong.
I promise I shall never give up, and that I'll die yelling and laughing, and that until then I'll rush around this world I insist is holy and pull at everyone's lapel and make them confess to me and to all.
Life must be rich and full of loving--it's no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.
You are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration
The fact that everybody in the world dreams every night ties all mankind together.
I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.
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