There’s much more stupidity than there is malice in the world...
The most difficult challenge to the ideal is its transformation into reality, and few ideals survive.
The function of this school is custodial. It’s here to keep these kids off the streets until the girls are big enough to get pregnant and the boys are old enough to go out and hold up a gas station.
That was Youth with its reckless exuberance when all things were possible pursued by Age where we are now, looking back at what we destroyed, what we tore away from that self who could do more, and it...
That fever had passed; but for the rest of his life it never left his eyes.
TO A CHILD, BEHELD IN SUMMER RAIMENTLittle girl, one lesser garmentwill suffice to clothe your crotch,Hide that undiscovered cavernWhere old Time will wind his watch.
Stupidity’s the deliberate cultivation of ignorance.
She can paint herself red and hang on the wall and whistle, I don't care
Say a word, say a thousand to me on the telephone and I shall choose the wrong one to cling to as though you had said it after long deliberation when only I provoked it from you, I will cling to it fr...
None of us grew but the business.
Merry Christmas! the man threatened.
If we believe that love is weakness? And people resent it, because they think it’s an admission of weakness, they draw away from it… and that’s why you kill the thing you love, because it’s your weakn...
If it is not beautiful for someone, it does not exist.
I, it’s just, listen, criticism? It’s the most important art now, it’s the one we need most now. Criticism is the art we need most today. But not, don’t you see? not the if I’d done it myself . . . Ye...
Human, we treat them as we treat others, take for granted services to which they did not pretend. But we force telephones to corrupt intimacy while they pretend to preserve it by keeping alive only it...
The face of Christ in your van der Goes, no one could call that a lie.
Do you know why the French are so honest? because there are so few words in their language they’re forced to be.
What's any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around. What's left of the man when the work's done but a shambles of apology.
What you seek in vain for, half your life, one day you come full upon, all the family at dinner. You seek it like a dream, and as soon as you find it, you become its prey
The room was filled with smoke, dry worn-out smoke retaining in it like a web the insectile cadavers of dry husks of words which had been spoken and should be gone, the breaths exhaled not to be breat...