SundayDec 22, 2024
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
The world fears a new experience more than it fears anything. Because a new experience displaces so many old experiences.... The world doesn't fear a new idea. It can pigeon-hole any idea. But it can't pigeon-hole a real new experience.
But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.
Life is ours to be spent, not to be saved.
The peasants of Sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and clean their loaf seems, so perfumed, as home-made bread used all to be before the war.
The near end of the street was rather dark and had mostly vegetable shops. Abundance of vegetables piles of white and green fennel, like celery, and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-coloured artichokes ... long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet large peppers, a large slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colours and vegetable freshness....
It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.
If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she is a dry stick as a rule.
Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
I never saw a wild thing Sorry for itself.
Oh build your ship of death. Oh build it! For you will need it. For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.
For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch! Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of a flower down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark.
For he seemed to me again like a king, Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, Now due to be crowned again.
A snake came to my water trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pajamas for the heat, To drink there.
You love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.
Build then the ship of death, for you must take the longest journey, to oblivion.
I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea. My soul knows that I am part of the human race, my soul is an organic part of the great human race, as my spirit is part of my nation. In my own very self, I am part of my family.
When one jumps over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.
Now in November nearer comes the sun down the abandoned heaven.
We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying and our strength leaves us, and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood, cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge Driven by invisible blows, The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.
Sex and beauty are inseparable, like life and consciousness. And the intelligence which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.
How the horse dominated the mind of the early races, especially of the Mediterranean! You were a lord if you had a horse. Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.... The horse, the horse! The symbol of surging potency and power of movement, of action, in man.
The grim frost is at hand, when apples will fall thick, almost thunderous, on the hardened earth.
Whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies. And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
Necessary, forever necessary, to burn out false shames and smelt the heaviest ore of the body into purity.
Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.
Art-speech is the only truth. An artist is usually a damned liar, but his art, if it be art, will tell you the truth of his day.
I conceive a man's body as a kind of flame, like a candle flame, forever upright and yet flowing: And the intellect is just the light that is shed on the things around.
Have you built your ship of death, O have you? O build your ship of death, for you will need it.
The Marriage appears to us more real than the land.
Never trust the artist. Trust the tale.
Loud peace propaganda makes war seem imminent.
How beastly the bourgeois is Especially the male of the species.
To the Puritan all things are impure, as somebody says.
I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.
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