Life Consists Of Burning Up Questions.

Leave The Caves Of Being. Come. The Mind Breathes Outside The Mind. The Time Has Come To Abandon Your Lodgings. Surrender To The Universal Thought. The Marvelous Is At The Root Of The Mind.

I See In The Act Of Throwing The Dice And Of Risking The Affirmation Of Some Intuitively Felt Truth, However Uncertain, My Whole Reason For Living.

I Know Each Conversation With A Psychiatrist In The Morning Made Me Want To Hang Myself Because I Knew I Could Not Strangle Him.

The Idea Of A Detached Art, Of Poetry As A Charm Which Exists Only To Distract Our Leisure, Is A Decadent Idea And An Unmistakable Symptom Of Our Power To Castrate.

How Hard Is It, When Everything Encourages Us To Sleep, Though We May Look About Us With Conscious, Clinging Eyes, To Wake And Yet Look About Us As In A Dream, With Eyes That No Longer Know Their Function And Whose Gaze Is Turned Inward.