William S. Burroughs Ipsum
Word Lists: William S. Burroughs
A cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. be just and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death. i bear my burden proudly for all to see, to conquer prejudice and ignorance and hate with knowledge and sincerity and love. whenever you are threatened by a hostile presence, you emit a thick cloud of love like an octopus squirts out ink... beating at it with his fists....
Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. language is a virus from outer space. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? i miss you so much your absence causes me, at times, accute pain. i don't mean sexually. i mean in connection with my writing. as a young child i wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. they lounged around singapore and rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. they sniffed cocaine in mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle. did i ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? his whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. but the asshole would eat its way through it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. same as any other mouth. in the morning with transparentjelly... like a tadpole's tail so, the brain couldn't and there was no more feeling in them.
There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. it is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? nothing exists until or unless it is observed. an artist is making something exist by observing it. and his hope for other people is that they will also make it exist by observing it. i call it 'creative observation.' creative viewing. all over his mouth..
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Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. language is a virus from outer space. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? i miss you so much your absence causes me, at times, accute pain. i don't mean sexually. i mean in connection with my writing. as a young child i wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. they lounged around singapore and rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. they sniffed cocaine in mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle. did i ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? his whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. but the asshole would eat its way through it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. same as any other mouth. in the morning with transparentjelly... like a tadpole's tail so, the brain couldn't and there was no more feeling in them.
There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. it is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? nothing exists until or unless it is observed. an artist is making something exist by observing it. and his hope for other people is that they will also make it exist by observing it. i call it 'creative observation.' creative viewing. all over his mouth..