What an ironic tragedy that an affluent, “Christian” minority in the world continues to hoard its wealth while hundreds of millions of people hover on the edge of starvation!
Inside my soul a treasure is buried. The key is mine and only mine. How right you are, you drunken monster! I know: the truth is in the wine. ("The Unknown Lady")
The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water A woman's shriek assaults the ear While above, in the sky, inured to everything, The moon looks on with a mindless leer ("The Unknown Lady")
Beyond the lake the waning moon has slowed, And stands there like a window open wide Into a hushed and brightly lit abode Where something dreadful has occurred inside.
Tahtahta-ha-ha' clattered the wheels. A lamp outside the window nodded to him. Another. A third. The lamps ceased to wink. Night without winking clung to the windows. ("Adam")
It is very rarely that a middle-aged man finds an author who gives him, what he knew so often in his teens and twenties, the sense of having opened a new door.
They rarely look at Baba -- the teenagers -- and then only with cold indifference, or even subtle disdain, as if my father should have known better than to allow old age and decay to happen to him.
A life is no less valuable or beloved if one lives in an age of decline, than in an age of progress.
Rather I think that a man who ... is willing ... to value learning as long as he lives, not supposing that old age brings him wisdom of itself, will necessarily pay more attention to the rest of his life.
Unsettling because it reveals some possible branch of evolution in which sex organs will no longer exist. The bots won’t need them, and perhaps without them, the entire concept of gender will disappear.
I’ll make birthday to you like turkey on wheat. Hold the mayonnaise—and hold me tightly. My love candle burns bright for you like a black hole.
Francis Bacon has the most delicious last name ever, followed closely by Johnny Scrambledeggs. I make love like those two guys make breakfast out of family reunions.
Nine times out of ten I left one out. But the one I leave out is never love. I always put love in—even when I put it in your butt.
I shaved my pubic hair, glued it on a wig, and declared it art. No museum was willing to exhibit it. I should have sprinkled cheddar cheese on top and called it An Ode To Love.
I can throw an orange like a baseball, but I can't eat a baseball like an orange. It's like that with love too, only with less velocity and fruiticism.
I’m unreliable, admittedly, so you can’t believe me when I say I’m unreliable. I’m also in love, so that may contribute to my unreliability.
I love with the heart of two men. Well, I would, if that damned neurosurgeon would go ahead and replace my left brain with the heart of a midget.
I’m a fake fact factory. The things I make are the things I make up. Also, as a side business, I make love. Actually, I just made that up.
Women, who understands them? Not men—and certainly not women. Perhaps only cats do. But who understands cats? Perhaps only Orafoura, the last remaining Cupid and sole savior of earthly love.
The cup had a lot of volume, so I poured in a lot of noise and sipped it up to my ears. And what I heard didn’t smell like coffee, but it did taste like love.
Coffee, it’s not my cup of tea. Being in love isn’t really my cup of tea either, but when it’s steamy I’ll sip it dutifully.
