Walking towards the mountain top, I study the rigid outlines of your buildings, which tomorrow will crumple and collapse in smoke. I study your peace programmes which will end in a hail of bullets. I study your glittering shop windows crammed with inventions for tomorrow there will be no use. I study your worn faces hacked with toil, your broken arches, your fallen stomachs. I study you individually and in the swarm – and how you stink all of you!
The new men who will never wear out, because the parts can always be replaced. New men without eyes, nose, ears or mouth, men with ball bearings in their joints and skates on their feet. Men immune to riots and revolution.
Never more God than in the godless crowd.
I’ve to keep my body in trim for the worms. Got to keep my soul intact for God.
In the past every member of our family did something with his hands. I’m the first idle son of a bitch with a glib tongue and a bad heart.
Everybody’s getting ready to get raped, drugged, violated, soused with the new music that seeps out of the sweat of the asphalt.
It’s strange, but if you cand draw an arch the rest of the bridge folows naturally. Only an engineer can ruin a bridge.
No harm, I say, can ever be done a great book by taking it with you to the toillet. Only the little books suffer thereby.
Every man his own civilized desert, the island of self on which he is shipwrecked: happiness, relative or absolute, is out of the question.
For me the book is the man and my book is the man I am, the confused man, the negligent man, the reckless man, the lusty, obscene, boisterous, thoughtful, scrupulous man that I am.