For attractive lips, speak words of kindness. For lovely eyes, seek out the good...– Audrey Hepburn
I have done it again One year in every ten I manage it—- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen Peel of the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—- The nose, the eyepits, the full set of teeth The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me ...
I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to...
-creating is like anything else good: you have to wait on it; ambition has...– Charles Bukowski ‘Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way’
For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for...– charles bukowski
henrycharlesbukowski: “We are Born like this Into this Into these carefully mad wars Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness Into bars where people no longer speak to each other Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings Born into this Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty Into...
Te amé sin que yo lo supiera, y busqué tu memoria. En las casas vacías entré con...– Pablo Neruda
Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was:...– Charles Bukowski
George Orwell Why I Write
From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books. I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on...
my love is a forest fire
Religions are, by definition, metaphors, after all: God is a dream, a hope, a...– Neil Gaiman
I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the...– The Portable Jack Kerouac by Jack Kerouac (Selected Letters 1957-1969 and is a letter he wrote to his first wife, Edie in 1957.)
The closer you get to real matter, rock air fire and wood, boy, the more...– Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I...
Jack Kerouac - Mcdougal Street Blues And nobody...
This Must Be the Place: Credo (An Excerpt from... →
Remember above all things, Kid, that to write is not difficult, not painful, that it comes out of you with ease, that you can whip up a little tale in no time, that when you are sincere about it, that when you want to impress a truth, it is not difficult, not painful, but easy, graceful, full of smooth power, as if you were a writing machine with a store of literature that is boundless,...
Are we fallen angels who didn’t want to believe that nothing is nothing and so...– Jack Kerouac
Allen Ginsberg - Transcription of Organ Music
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock →
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask,...
we die to each other daily. what we know of other people is only our memory of...– — T.S. Elliot
swimming upstream: Is it sad or is it beautiful... →
tobenaked: Is it sad or is it beautiful when all you want to do is sprawl out naked with someone and study the human body like an uncharted territory. I know your freckles like the infrastructure of my childhood home, I know your sounds and I know your lines. I am not trying to make this too much, but it should never be too little, because we all want to figure out how to make love but it...
One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate...– from Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
‘Do you know what a poem is, Esther?’ ‘No, what?’ I would say. ‘A piece of...– The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath