America, why are your libraries full of tears?

I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter.

Democracy! Bah! When I hear that word I reach for my feather boa!

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

Inside skull vast as outside skull.

You can't escape the past in Paris, and yet what's so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn't seem to burden.

Burroughs a purest ignu his haircut is a cream his left finger pinkey chopped off for early ignu reasons metaphysical spells love spells with psychoanalysts
his very junkhood an accomplishment beyond a million dollars.

The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!

Thank God I am not God! Thank God I am not God!

Whoever controls the media, the images, controls the culture.

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

That blue flame burnning? Industry!

We love to be hurt and we love to have our unhealing wounds opened and reopened again: we sit staring in the mirror of art, fascinated by our own deformities.

You were right, I suppose, in keeping your distance. I was too intent on self-fulfillment, and rather crude about it, with all my harlequinade and conscious manipulation of your pity.

Let the straight flower bespeak its purpose in straightness -- to seek the light.

Let the crooked flower bespeak its purpose in crookedness -- to seek the light.

Let the crookedness and straightness bespeak the light.

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

My own experience is that a certain kind of genius among students is best brought out in bed.

Bob Dylan's one of the greatest blues singers of the western world; ancient art, on-the-spot improvisation, mind quickness, endless variation, classical formulae, prophetic vision, mighty wind-horse.

I saw the best minds of my generation who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, and alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade.

The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.