In his autobiography Stravinsky relates that the first music he remembers was made by a peasant, working his hand in his armpit to produce a rhytmic farting.
This will be Great Mam's last spring. Her last June apples. Her last fresh roasting ears from the garden.
History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had - it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes.
He was not in the house. He did not come back that night. Days went by, and at last she understood that he would not return at all.
No man will ever be whole and dignified and free except in the knowledge that the men around him are whole and dignified and free, and that the world itself is free of contempt and misuse.
(Can you understand your own dreams, which arise with mushrooms' rank richness in the night-forests within your skull?)
Only a rebuke that 'has something in it' will sting, will have the power to stir our feelings, not the other sort, as we know.
Provide for her Future—if you can!—That's my motto!—But a man's just a plain bum who don't provide for his own Past!
I stood before her asserting my age, but in truth not knowing where the years had gone or how they had led up to this moment.
How can anyone love someone who is less than a full person, unless love itself is domination per se?
Being stigmatied by sex is being marked by its meaning in a human life of loneliness and imperfection, where some pain is indelible.
Words and magic were in the beginning one and the same thing, and even today words retain much of their magical power.
I cannot bear to associate with the ordinary run of people. I have to surround myself with individuals who for the most part are more than a trifle insane
We cannot carve or forcibly preserve or cultivate belief. If it will grow, it grows as we do - mostly after we have fallen
Suffering is tossed by handfuls over the multitudes, with most of it falling on some people and little or none of it on others.
The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?
Sometimes what I wouldn't give to have us sitting in a bar again at 9:00 a.m. telling lies to one another, far from God.
Maybe, when you hear the name "Beverly," you think of Beverly Hills--people wandering the streets with their heads shot off by money.
In the ghetto of Genre, anything goes, man. When you live in the gutter it doesn’t matter if you’re filthy. In theory anyway.
DNA neither cares nor knows. DNA just is. And we dance to its music.
Death cannot be experienced either by the dead or the living.
