William S. Burroughs Ipsum

After a shooting spree, they always want to take the guns away from the people who didn't do it. i sure as hell wouldn't want to live in a society where the only people allowed guns are the police and the military. language is a virus from outer space. nothing is true, everything is permitted. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. black magic operates most effectively in preconscious, marginal areas. casual curses are the most effective. nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death. 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 is nothing more provocative than minding your own business. artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. cheat your landlord if you can -- and must -- but do not try to shortchange the muse. to be an outlaw you must first have a base in law to reject and get out of, i never had such a base. i never had a place i could call home that meant any more than a key to a house, apartment or hotel room. ... am i alien? alien from what exactly? perhaps my home is my dream city, more real than my waking life precisely because it has no relation to waking life... it is to be remembered that all art is magical in origin - music, sculpture, writing, painting - and by magical i mean intended to produce very definite results. paintings were originally formulae to make what is painted happen. art is not an end in itself, any more than einstein's matter-into-energy formulae is an end in itself. like all formulae, art was originally functional, intended to make things happen, the way an atom bomb happens from einstein's formulae. we are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of true romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. i do not say lonely -- at least, not all the time -- but essentially, and finally, alone. this is what makes your self-respect so important, and i don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness in the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen. little raspy incurving hooks and started eating. and built an act around it... and it wanted to be kissed, and sticking candles up it, but... "because we don't need you so, finally, his mouth sealed over... except for the eyes, you dig? that the asshole couldn't do was see. sealed off. as one judge said to another judge: be just. and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. what a horrible loutish planet this is. the dominant species consists of sadistic morons, faces bearing the hideous lineaments of spiritual famine swollen with stupid hate. hopeless rubbish..

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. our national drug is alcohol. we tend to regard the use any other drug with special horror. black magic operates most effectively in preconscious, marginal areas. casual curses are the most effective. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. 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. i am not one of those weak-spirited, sappy americans who want to be liked by all the people around them. i don't care if people hate my guts; i assume most of them do. the important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it. my affections, being concentrated over a few people, are not spread all over hell in a vile attempt to placate sulky, worthless shits. love? what is it? most natural painkiller what there is. writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. there are things i wish i could forget. when you stop growing you start dying. every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage. thou shalt not be such a shit, you don't know you are one. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. you know a real friend? someone you know will look after your cat after you are gone. it is to be remembered that all art is magical in origin - music, sculpture, writing, painting - and by magical i mean intended to produce very definite results. paintings were originally formulae to make what is painted happen. art is not an end in itself, any more than einstein's matter-into-energy formulae is an end in itself. like all formulae, art was originally functional, intended to make things happen, the way an atom bomb happens from einstein's formulae. there is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit. shouting out it wanted equal rights. nobody loved it. same as any other mouth. "it is you who will shut up in the end, not me... "because we don't need you after that, he began waking up in the morning with transparentjelly... so, finally, his mouth sealed over... would have amputated spontaneously except for the eyes, you dig? and then finally what a horrible loutish planet this is. the dominant species consists of sadistic morons, faces bearing the hideous lineaments of spiritual famine swollen with stupid hate. hopeless rubbish. out of the closets and into the museums, libraries, architectural monuments, concert halls, bookstores, recording studios and film studios of the world. everything belongs to the inspired and dedicated thief.... words, colors, light, sounds, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. they belong to anyone who can use them. loot the louvre! a bas l'originalit.

Happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. the cat does not offer services. the cat offers itself. of course he wants care and shelter. you don't buy love for nothing. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. 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. whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction. writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. there are things i wish i could forget. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. that old feeling is still in my leaking heart. he thought this was cute at first screaming at it to shut up... i can talk and eat and shit." after that, he began waking up all over his mouth. like burning gasoline jelly because the eyes went out....