First Surrealist Manifesto

From Le Manifeste du Surréalisme, 1924
ANDRÉ BRETON
We are still living under the reign of logic, but the logical processes of our time apply only to the solution of problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism which remains in fashion allows for the consideration of only those facts narrowly relevant to our experience. Logical conclusions, on the other hand, escape us. Needless to say, boundaries have been assigned even to ex- perience. It revolves in a cage from which release is becoming increasingly difficult. It too depends upon immediate utility and is guarded by common sense. In the guise of civilization, under the pretext of progress, we have suc- ceeded in dismissing from our minds anything that, rightly or wrongly, could be regarded as superstition or myth; and we have proscribed every way of seeking the truth which does not conform to convention. It would appear that it is by sheer chance that an aspect of intellectual life - and by far the most important in my opinion — about which no one was supposed to be concerned any longer has, recently, been brought back to light. Credit for this must go to Freud. On the evidence of his discoveries a current of opinion is at last developing which will enable the explorer of the human mind to extend his investigations, since he will be empowered to deal with more than merely summary realities. Perhaps the imagination is on the verge of recovering its rights. If the depths of our minds conceal strange forces capable of augmenting or conquering those on the surface, it is in our greatest interest to capture them; first to capture them and later to submit them, should the occasion arise, to the control of reason. The analysts themselves can only gain by this. But it is im- portant to note that there is no method fixed a priori for the execution of this enterprise, that until the new order it can be considered the province of poets as well as scholars, and that its success does not depend upon the more or less capricious routes which will be followed.
It was only fitting that Freud should appear with his critique on the dream. In fact, it is incredible that this important part of psychic activity has still attracted so little attention. (For, at least from man's birth to his death, thought presents no solution of continuity; the sum of dreaming moments - even taking into consideration pure dream alone, that of sleep - is from the point of view of time no less than the sum of moments of reality, which we shall confine to waking moments.) I have always been astounded by the extreme disproportion in the importance and seriousness assigned to events of the waking moments and to those of sleep by the ordinary observer. Man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all at the mercy of his memory, and the memory normally delights in feebly retracing the circumstance of the dream for him, depriving it of all actual consequence and obliterating the only determinant from the point at which he thinks he abandoned this constant hope, this anxiety, a few hours earlier. He has the illusion of continuing something worthwhile. The dream finds itself relegated to a parenthesis, like the night. And in general it gives no more counsel than the night. This singular state of affairs seems to invite a few reflections:
1. Within the limits to which its performance is restricted (or what passes for performance), the dream, according to all outward appearances, is continuous and bears traces of organization. Only memory claims the right to edit it, to suppress transitions and present us with a series of dreams rather than the dream. Similarly, at no given instant do we have more than a distinct representation of realities whose co-ordination is a matter of will.(1) It is important to note that nothing leads to a greater dissipation of the constituent elements of the dream. I regret discussing this according to a formula which in principle ex- cludes the dream. For how long, sleeping logicians, philosophers? I would like to sleep in order to enable myself to surrender to sleepers, as I surrender to those who read me with their eyes open, in order to stop the conscious rhythm of my thought from prevailing over this material. Perhaps my dream of last night was a continuation of the preceding night's, and will be continued tonight with an admirable precision. It could be, as they say. And as it is in no way proven that, in such a case, the 'reality' with which I am concerned even exists in the dream state, or that it does not sink into the immemorial, then why should I not concede to the dream what I sometimes refuse to reality - that weight of self-assurance which by its own terms is not exposed to my denial? Why should I not expect more of the dream sign than I do of a daily increasing degree of consciousness? Could not the dreams as well be applied to the solution of life's fundamental problems? Are these problems the same in one case as in the other, and do they already exist in the dream? Is the dream less oppressed by sanctions than the rest? I am growing old and, perhaps more than this reality to which I believe myself confined, it is the dream, and the detachment that I owe to it, which is ageing me.
2 I return to the waking state. I am obliged to retain it as a phenomenon of interference. Not only does the mind show a strange tendency to disorientation under these conditions (this is the clue to slips of the tongue and lapses of all kinds whose secret is just beginning to be surrendered to us), but when function- ing normally the mind still seems to obey none other than those suggestions which rise from that deep night I am commending. Sound as it may be, its equilibrium is relative. The mind hardly dares express itself and, when it does, is limited to stating that this idea or that woman has an effect on it. What effect it cannot say; thus it gives the measure of its subjectivism and nothing more. The idea, the woman, disturbs it, disposes it to less severity. Their role is to isolate one second of its discappearance and remove it to the sky in that glorious acceleration that it can be, that it is. Then, as a last resort, the mind invokes chance - a more obscure divinity than the others - to whom it attributes all its aberrations. Who says that the angle from which that idea is presented which affects the mind, as well as what the mind loves in that woman's eye, is not precisely the same thing that attracts the mind to its dream and reunites it with data lost through its own error? And if things were otherwise, of what might the mind not be capable? I should like to present it with the key to that passage.
3 The mind of the dreaming man is fully satisfied with whatever happens to it. The agonizing question of possibility does not arise. Kill, plunder more quickly, love as much as you wish. And if you die, are you not sure of being roused from the dead? Let yourself be led. Events will not tolerate deferment. You have no name. Everything Is inestimably easy.
What power, I wonder, what power so much more generous than others confers this natural aspect upon the dream and makes me welcome unreservedly a throng of episodes whose strangeness would overwhelm me if they were hap- pening as I write this? And yet I can believe it with my own eyes, my own ears. That great day has come, that beast has spoken.
If man's awakening is harsher, if he breaks the spell too well, it is because he has been led to form a poor idea of expiation.
4 When the time comes when we can submit the dream to a methodical examination, when by methods yet to be determined we succeed in realizing the dream in its entirety (and that implies a memory discipline measurable in generations, but we can still begin by recording salient facts), when the dream's curve is developed with an unequalled breadth and regularity, then we can hope that mysteries which are not really mysteries will give way to the great Mystery. I believe in the future resolution of these two states -- outwardly so contradic- tory -- which are dream and reality, into a sort of absolute reality, a surreality, so to speak, I am aiming for its conquest, certain that I myself shall not attain it, but too indifferent to my death not to calculate the joys of such possession.
They say that not long ago, just before he went to sleep, Saint-Pol-Roux placed a placard on the door of his manor at Camaret which read: THE POET WORKS.
There is still a great deal to say, but I did want to touch lightly, in passing, upon a subject which in itself would require a very long exposition with a dif- ferent precision. I shall return to it. For the time being my intention has been to see that justice was done to that hatred of the marvellous which rages in certain men, that ridicule under which they would like to crush it. Let us resolve, therefore: the Marvellous is always beautiful, everything marvellous is beautiful. Nothing but the Marvellous is beautiful.
... One night, before falling asleep, I became aware of a most bizarre sentence, clearly articulated to the point where it was impossible to change a word of it, but still separate from the sound of any voice. It came to me bearing no trace of the events with which I was involved at that time, at least to my conscious knowledge. It seemed to me a highly insistent sentence - a sentence, I might say, which knocked at the window. I quickly took note of it and was prepared to disregard it when something about its whole character held me back. The sentence truly astounded me. Unfortunately I still cannot remember the exact words to this day, but it was something like: 'A man is cut in half by the window'; but it can only suffer from ambiguity, accompanied as it was by the feeble visual representation of a walking man cut in half by a window perpendicular to the axis of his body. ^ It was probably a simple mat- ter of a man leaning on the window and then straightening up. But the window followed the movements of the man, and I realized that I was dealing with a very rare type of image. Immediately I had the idea of incorporating it into my poetic material, but no sooner had I invested it with poetic form than it went on to give way to a scarcely intermittent succession of sentences which surprised me no less than the first and gave me the impression of such a free gift that the control which I had had over myself up to that point seemed illusory and I no longer thought of anything but how to put an end to the interminable quarrel which was taking place within me.(3)
Totally involved as I was at the time with Freud, and familiar with his methods of examination which I had had some occasion to practise on the sick during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what one seeks to obtain from a patient - a spoken monologue uttered as rapidly as possible, over which the critical faculty of the subject has no control, unencumbered by any reticence, which is spoken thought as far as such a thing is possible. It seemed to me, and still does - the manner in which the sentence about the man cut in two came to me proves it - that the speed of thought is no greater than that of words, and that it does not necessarily defy language or the moving pen. It was with this in mind that Philippe Soupault (with whom I had shared these first conclusions) and I undertook to cover some paper with writing, with a laudable contempt for what might result in terms of literature. The ease of realization did the rest. At the end of the first day we were able to read to each other around fifty pages obtained by this method, and began to compare our results. Altogether, those of Soupault and my own presented a remarkable similarity, even including the same faults in construction: in both cases there was the illusion of an extra- ordinary verve, a great deal of emotion, a considerable assortment of images of a quality such as we would never have been capable of achieving in ordinary writing, a very vivid graphic quality, and here and there an acutely comic passage. The only difference between our texts seemed to me essentially due to our respective natures (Soupault's is less static than mine) and, if I may hazard a slight criticism, due to the fact that he had made the mistake of distributing a few words in the way of titles at the head of certain pages — no doubt in the spirit of mystification. On the other hand, I must give him credit for maintaining his steadfast opposition to the slightest alteration in the course of any passage which seemed to me rather badly put. He was completely right on this point, of course.(4) In fact it is very difficult to appreciate the full value of the various elements when confronted by them. It can even be said to be impossible to appreciate them at the first reading. These elements are outwardly as strange to you who have written them as to anyone else, and you are naturally distrustful of them. Poetically speaking, they are especially endowed with a very high degree of immediate absurdity. The peculiarity of this absurdity, on closer examination, comes from their capitulation to everything — both inad- missible and legitimate - In the world, to produce a revelation of a certain number of premises and facts generally no less objective than any others.
In homage to Guillaume Apollinaire - who died recently, and who appears to have consistently obeyed a similar impulse to ours without ever really sacrificing mediocre literary means - Soupault and I used the name SURREALISM to designate the new mode of pure expression which we had at our disposal and with which we were anxious to benefit our friends. Today I do not believe anything more need be said about this word. The meaning which we have given it has generally prevailed over Apollinaire's meaning. With even more justification we could have used SUPERNATURALISM, employed by Gerard de Nerval in the dedication of Filles de Feu.(5) In fact, Nerval appears to have possessed to an admirable extent the spirit to which we refer. Apollinaire, on the other hand, possessed only the letter of surrealism (which was still imper- fect) and showed himself powerless to give it the theoretical insight that engages us. Here are two passages by Nerval which appear most significant in this regard:
'I will explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon of which you spoke above. As you know, there are certain story-tellers who cannot invent without identifying themselves with the characters from their imagination. You know with what conviction our old friend Nodier told how he had had the misfortune to be guillotined at the time of the Revolution; one became so convinced that one wondered how he had managed to stick his head back on.'
'... And since you have had the imprudence to cite one of the sonnets composed in this state of SUPERNATURALIST reverie, as the Germans v/ould say, you must hear all of them. You will find them at the end of the volume. They are hardly more obscure than Hegel's metaphysics or Swedenborg's MEMORABLES, and would lose their charm in explication, if such a thing were possible, so concede me at least the merit of their expression . . .'(6)
It would be dishonest to dispute our right to employ the word SURREALISM in the very particular sense in which we intend it, for it is clear that before we came along this word amounted to nothing. Thus I shall define it once and for all:
SURREALISM, noun, masc., Pure psychic automatism by which it is intended to express, either verbally or in writing, the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.
ENCYCL. Philos. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of association heretofore neglected, in the omnipotence of the dream, and in the disinterested play of thought. It leads to the permanent destruction of all other psychic mechanisms and to its substitution for them in the solution of the principal problems of life.

საღამო ღმერთთან-Steven King

საღამო ღმერთთან

სცენა ჩაბნელებულია. პროჟექტორი წყვდიადის შუაგულში თავისთვის მოქანავე პაპიემაშეს გლობუსს თანდათან ანათებს. სცენაზე შუქი ძლიერდება და ჩვენ მისაღები ოთახის დეკორაციას ვხედავთ: რბილი სავარძელი, იქვე მაგიდა (მაგიდაზე ლუდის გახსნილი ბოთლი დევს) და ტელევიზორი დასადგამი კარადითურთ. მაგიდის ქვეშ ლუდით სავსე საპიკნიკე მაცივარია. ირგვლივ ცარიელი ბოთლებია მიმოფანტული. ჩანს, ღმერთი თავს მშვენივრად გრძნობს. სცენიდან მარცხნივ კარებია.

ღმერთი – მოზრდილი ტიპი თეთრი წვერით – სავარძელში ზის, მონაცვლეობით ხან წიგნს კითხულობს („როცა კარგ ხალხს ცუდი ამბები მოსდით“), ხან ტელევიზორს უყურებს. კისრის წაგრძელება უწევს, ეკრანს რომ შეხედოს, რადგან გლობუსი (თოკზეა ჩამოკიდებული) ჰაერში პირდაპირ მისი მზერის გასწვრივ დაცურავს. ტელევიზორში სიტუაციურ კომედიას უჩვენებენ. ღმერთი კადრსგარე სიცილის სინქრონულად ხითხითებს.

კარზე აკაკუნებენ.

ღმერთი (ძლიერი, მჭექარე ხმით)

შემოდი, ჭეშმარიტად გეუბნები, ის შენთვის ღიაა!

კარები იღება. შემოდის წმინდა პეტრე, ბრწყინვალე თეთრ ტანისამოსში გამოწყობილი. ხელში პორტფელი უჭირავს.

ღმერთი

პეტრე, მეგონა შვებულებაში იყავი!

წმ. პეტრე

ნახევარ საათში მივდივარ, მაგრამ ვიფიქრე, წასვლამდე რაღაც საბუთები მომეტანა, ხელმოსაწერად. თავს როგორ გრძნობ, ღმერთო?

ღმერთი

ახლა უკეთ. უნდა მეფიქრა, სანამ იმ ცხარე წიწაკას შევჭამდი, ყველაფერი ჩამწვა. ეს რა არის, ჯოჯოხეთში გადასაგზავნი წერილებია?

წმ. პეტრე

ჰო, როგორც იქნა. მადლობა ღმერთს! ბოდიში კალამბურისთვის.

პორტფელიდან რამდენიმე ფურცელს იღებს. ღმერთი ქაღალდებს თვალს გადაავლებს და მოუთმენლად უწვდის ხელს, მაგრამ წმინდა პეტრე უკვე მოძრავ გლობუსს უყურებს. უკან მობრუნებული, დაინახავს, რომ ღმერთი მას ელოდება და კალამს გამოწვდილ ხელში ჩაუდებს. ღმერთი დაუდევრად მიაჯღაბნის ხელმოწერას, წმინდა პეტრე კი ისევ გლობუსს მიაშტერდება.

წმინდა პეტრე

ჰმ, ესე იგი, დედამიწა ისევ იქაა? მთელი ამ წლების შემდეგ.

ღმერთი ქაღალდებს უკან უბრუნებს და გლობუსს ახედავს. მის მზერაში გაღიზიანება იკითხება.

ღმერთი

ჰო, ეს მსახური სამყაროში ყველაზე გულმავიწყი ძუკნაა.

ტელევიზორიდან სიცილის ნიაღვარი წამოსკდება. ღმერთი შებრუნდება, რომ დაინახოს რა მოხდა. ვეღარ მიუსწრო.

ღმერთი

ჯანდაბა, ეს ალან ელდა იყო?

წმინდა პეტრე

მემგონი, სერ. ნამდვილად არ დამინახავს.

ღმერთი

არც მე.

გაემართება და მოქანავე გლობუსს ისე დაამსხვრევს, მტვრად აქცევს.

ღმერთი (კმაყოფილი სახით)

ესეც ამას! დიდი ხანია ამის გაკეთება მინდოდა, ახლა მაინც შემიძლია ვუყურო ტელევიზორს.

წმინდა პეტრე მწუხარედ შეჰყურებს დედამიწის დამსხვრეულ ნარჩენებს.

წმინდა პეტრე

მმ...მე მგონი, იქ ალან ელდას სამყარო იყო, ღმერთო

ღმერთი

და რა? (ტელევიზორს შეხედავს და ჩაიხითხითებს) რობინ უილიამსი! მიყვარს რობინ უილიამსი!

წმინდა პეტრე

მე მგონი ელდაც და უილიამსიც იქ იყვნენ, როცა თქვენ...ეეემ.. განაჩენი აღასრულეთ, სერ.

ღმერთი

უჰ, ყველა ვიდეოჩანაწერი მაქვს, რა პრობლემაა. გინდა ლუდი?

წმინდა პეტრე ლუდის ბოთლს იღებს, სცენის განათება თანდათან სუსტდება, პროჟექტორის სინათლის ნაკადი გლობუსის ნარჩენებსღა ანათებს.

წმინდა პეტრე

სიმართლე გითხრა, რაღაცნაირად მომწონდა ეს. დედამიწას ვგულისხმობ, ღმერთო.

ღმერთი

ცუდი არ იყო, მაგრამ ეს კიდევ ყველაფერი არაა. მოდი, ახლა შენი შვებულებისა დავლიოთ!

სუსტ განათებაში მხოლოდ ჩრდილებიღა ჩანს. თუმცა ღმერთის გარჩევა უკეთ შეიძლება, რადგან მისი თავის ირგვლივ მკრთალ შარავანდედს ვხედავთ. ერთმანეთს ბოთლებს უჭახუნებენ. ტელევიზორში ისევ სიცილი აუტყდათ.

ღმერთი

შეხედე, რიჩარდ პრაიორია. მკლავს ეს ბიჭი! მემგონი ის..

წმინდა პეტრე

დიახ, სერ..

ღმერთი

ჯანდაბა. (პაუზა) მგონი, აჯობებს სმას შევეშვა. (პაუზა) თუმცა...ის ხომ ჩემს მზერას ეღობებოდა.

ყველაფერს სიბნელე შთანთქავს, მხოლოდ პროჟექტორი ისევ ანთებს მოქანავე გლობუსის ნარჩენებს.

წმინდა პეტრე

დიახ, სერ..

ღმერთი (ბუზღუნით)

ჩემი შვილი დაბრუნდა, არა?

წმინდა პეტრე

დიახ, არც ისე დიდი ხანია.

ღმერთი

კარგია. ანუ, ყველაფერი რიგზეა.

პროჟექტორი ქრება.

(ავტორის შენიშნვნა: ღმერთის ხმა რაც შეიძლება მაღალი უნდა იყოს)



demo.ge

Literature Beat Generation

How sick i am! that thought Always comes to me with horror. Is it this strange for everybody? But such fugitive feelings have always been my metier.

- Allen Ginsberg

I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I'll never be sane.

- Allen Ginsberg

The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does.

- Allen Ginsberg

How sick i am! that thought Always comes to me with horror. Is it this strange for everybody? But such fugitive feelings have always been my metier.

- Allen Ginsberg

...who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demaning instantaneous lobotomy, and who instead received the concrete void of insulin metrazol hydrotherapy electicity therapy occupational therapy pingpong and amnesia...

- Allen Ginsberg

...angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...

- Allen Ginsberg

Dylan is about the individual against creation. Beethoven is about one man's fist in the lightining clouds, Allen Ginsburg is about a confused mind writing down newspaper headlines from Mars!

- Allen Ginsburg- "is about" ( $ ) ( ? )

A reading is a kind of communion. The poet articulates the semi-known for the tribe.

- Gary Snyder

Common Sense, Common Law, commom tenderness & common tranquility, our means in Americato control the money munching war machine, bright lit industry everywhere digesting forests & excreting soft pyramids of newsprint...burping Napalm on palm rice tropic greenery.

- Ginsberg

If you believe you're a poet, then you're saved

- Gregory Corso

Sure I'm old, and I'm evil, and I'm ugly, and I'm tired. But that isn't it. I've been this way for ten years, and I'm all down the main line.

- Herbert Huncke

Sure I'm old, and I'm evil, and I'm ugly, and I'm tired. But that isn't it. I've been this way for ten years, and I'm all down the main line.

- Herbert Huncke

Many ,many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now . Happily some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them-if you want to . Just as someday if you have something to offer , someone will learn something from you . And it isn't education . It's history . It's poetry.

- J.D Salinger

We should be wondering tonight, "Is there a world?" But I could go and talk on 5, 10, 20 minutes about is there a world, because there is really no world, cause sometimes I'm walkin’ on the ground and I see right through the ground. And there is no world. And you'll find out.

- Jack Kerouac

I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling. Ecstacy, even, I felt, with flashes of sudden remembrance, and feeling sweaty and drowsy I felt like sleeping and dreaming in the grass.

- Jack Kerouac

...and everything is going to the beat - It's the beat generation, it be-at, it's the beat to keep, it's the beat of the heart, it's being beat and down in the world and like oldtime lowdown and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat and servants spinning pottery to a beat...

- Jack Kerouac

But why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?

- Jack Kerouac

"Literature is no longer Necessary Teaching is left..

- Jack Kerouac

There's your Karma ripe as peaches.

- Jack Kerouac

My witness is the empty sky.

- Jack Kerouac

...colleges being nothing but grooming schools for the middleclass non-identity which usually finds its perfect expression on the outskirts of the campus in rows of well-to-do houses with lawns and television sets is each living room with everybody looking at the same thing and thinking the same thing at the same time while the Japhies of the world go prowling in the wilderness...

- Jack Kerouac

Mankind is like dogs, not gods--as long as you dont get mad they'll bite you--but stay mad and you'll never be bitten. Dogs dont respect humility & sorrow.

- Jack Kerouac

You never die enough to cry

- Jack Kerouac

the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace things, but burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "AWWW!"

- Jack Kerouac

The charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power.

- Jack Kerouac

We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked up at each other for the last time.

- Jack Kerouac

I loved the way she said "LA"; I love the way everybody says "LA" on the Coast; it's their one and only golden town when all is said and done.

- Jack Kerouac

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

- Jack Kerouac

"A man who allows wild passion to arise within, himself burns his heart, then after burning adds the wind that thereto which ignites the fire again, or not, as the case may be." IT'S ALL OVER

- Jack Kerouac

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.

- Jack Kerouac

New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets.

- Jack Kerouac

My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind. I'm a wretch. But I love, love.

- Jack Kerouac, "Satori in Paris" ( $ ) ( ? )

Throw my thoughts into the breeze one last time and watch them float away in waves of relief. Tomorrow...... I shall never think again for the burden is too much to bear.

- Jamie Stem

The bottoms of my shoes are clean from walking in the rain

- Kerouac

God is not outside us but is just us, the living and the dead, the never-lived and never-died. That we should learn it only now, is supreme reality, it was written a long time ago in the archives of universal mind, it is already done, there's no more to do.

- Kerouac

Where doth go, America, in thy shiny car in the night?

- Kerouac

Rather, I think one should write, as nearly as possible, as if he were the first person on earth and was humbly and sincerly putting on paper that which he saw and experienced and loved and lost; what his passing thoughts were and his sorrows and desires.

- Neal Cassady

To rebel! That is the immediate objective of poets! We can not wait and will not be held back...The "poetic marvelous" and the unconscious are the true inspirers of rebels and poets

- Philip Lamantia

In wildness is the preservation of the world

- Thoreau

there are no differences, but differences of degree,between degrees of difference and no difference.

- William Henry James

Jeder macht eine kleine Dummheit (everyone makes a little dumbness)

- William S. Burroughs

I'm running out of everything now. Out of veins, out of money.

- William S. Burroughs

"The only possible ETHIC is to do what one wants to do."

- William S. Burroughs

There is no line between the 'real world' and 'world of myth and symbol.' Objects, sensations, hit with the impact of hallucination.

- William S. Burroughs

Language is a virus.

- William S. Burroughs

In the U.S., you have to be a deviant or die or boredom.

- William S. Burroughs

Madness is confusion of levels of fact...Madness is not seeing visions but confusing levels.

- William S. Burroughs

trip your psyche to the bare bones of spontaneous process, and you give yourself one chance in a thousand to make the Pass.

- William S. Burroughs