And the books you write. They're not you. They're not me sitting here, this Henry Miller. They belong to someone else. It's terrible. You can never rest.

If the poet can no longer speak for society, but only for himself, then we are at the last ditch.

There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of our time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves.

When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.

Plots and character don't make life. Life is here and now, anytime you say the word, anytime you let her rip.

And there is a time, glorious too in its own way, when one scarcely exists, when one is a complete void. I mean, when boredom seems the very stuff of life.

We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.