Tales Of Ordinary Madness Quotes

the free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.

I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can't feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. but I think I have known it pretty often, too often.

Beauty is nothing, beauty won’t stay. You don’t know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like you, you know it’s for something else.

Something else is hurting you—that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.

I'm not the cruel type, but they are, and that's the secret.

the free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them...

Forgive me, I guess I am off in the head, but I mean, except for a quickie piece of ass it wouldn't matter to me if all the people in the world died. Yes, I know it's not nice. But I'd be as contended as a snail; it was, after all, the people who had made me unhappy.

I walked around the block twice, passed 200 people and failed to see a human being.

bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it

show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually dirty kitchen, and 5 times out of 9 I'll show you an exceptional man." "show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.

To ask them to legalize pot is something like asking them to put butter on the handcuffs before they place them on you: something else is hurting you—that's why you need pot, or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can't think. Or madhouses or mechanical cunts or 162 baseball games in a season. Or Vietnam or Israel or the fear of spiders.

why don't we go back out there and tell them what happened? because nothing happened except that everybody has been driven insane and stupid by life. in this society there are only two things that count: don't be caught without money and don't get caught high on any kind of high. (Night Streets of Madness)

The human race had always disgusted me. essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which neighborhood, your district, your city, your county, your state, your nation-everybody grabbing each other's assholes in the Honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity.

our sins are manufactured in heaven to create our own hell.

Love it or leave it

This birth thing. And this death thing. Each one had it's turn. We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives. An incomparable sadness descended up on me. Seeing all that life that must die. Seeing all that life that would first turn to hate, to dementia, to neuroses, to stupidity, to fear, to murder, to nothing - nothing in life and nothing in death.

that's ONE thing that's wrong with intellectuals and writers - they don't feel a hell of a lot except their own comfort or their own pain. which is normal but shitty.

When I get out, I thought, I am going to wait a while and then I am going to come back to this place, I am going to look at it from the outside and know exactly what's going on in there, and I'm going to stare at those walls and I'm going to make up my mind never to get on the inside of them again.

Man is the victim of an environment which refuses to understand his soul.

did you ever consider that lsd and color TV arrived for our consumption around the same time? Here comes all this explorative color pounding, and what do we do? we outlaw one and fuck up the other.

if you don't have much soul left and you know it, you still got soul.

the free soul is rare,but you know it when you see it- basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them

cunt and Kant and a happy home

I have met free man in the strangest of places and at ALL ages.

We’ve all heard that little woman who says, “Oh, it’s terrible what these young people do to themselves, in my lsi other drugs, is a terrible thing”. Then you look, the woman who speaks in this way: you have no eyes, no teeth, no brains, no soul, no ass, no mouth, no warmth, no spirit, nothing, just a stick… and avran made ​​you wonder how to reduce it in that state teas and pastries and the church.

I was the only one without. you could hit bottom and then find another bottom. balls.

I emit, I hiss a rather tired and gentle word like "shit", then tear this page from the machine. it's your.

Don't you wish you were Charles Bukowski? I can paint too. Lift weights. And my little girl think that I am God. Then other times, it's not so good.

that's what kills a man: lack of change.

a bad trip? this whole country, this whole world is on a bad trip, friend. but they'll arrest you for swallowing a tablet.

Perché sfotti così la tua bellezza?" le chiesi."Perché non ci vivi insieme, e via?" "Perché la gente pensa ch'è tutto quel che ho. La bellezza non è niente, la bellezza non dura. Non lo sai quanto sei fortunato, tu, a essere brutto, che se a qualcuno gli piaci, così sai che è per qualche cosa d'altro.

to whom it may concern: please phone me for appointments when you want to see me. I will not answer unsolicited knocks upon the door. I need time to do my work. I will not allow you to murder my work. please understand that what keeps me alive will make me a better person toward and for you when we finally meet under easy and unstrained conditions.

«Καθίσατε να σκεφτείτε στα σοβαρά ότι το LSD και η έγχρωμη τηλεόραση εμφανίστηκαν στην αγορά σχεδόν ταυτόχρονα; Καταφθάνει αυτός ο εκρηκτικός βομβαρδισμός χρωμάτων, κι εμείς τί κάνουμε; Κηρύττουμε παράνομο το ένα και γαμούμε τελείως το άλλο... »

La poesía dice demasiado en demasiado poco tiempo; la prosa dice demasiado poco y se toma demasiado tiempo.

a complete subnormal idiot. A good guy. wait until the fog came in some night and they sent him back to his lonely closed for a hand job.

Отидох в кухнята, изпих още една бира. Включих телевизора. Книжни хора. Стъклени хора. Почувствах, че ще се побъркам, и го изключих.

sometimes a man must fight so hard for life that he doesn't have time to live it.

«Εμένα η θέση μου δεν είναι εδώ. Τότε κάτι μου είπε πως αυτό σκέφτονται ΟΛΟΙ τους. Δεν ανήκω εδώ. Ο καθένας μας σκέφτεται το ίδιο πράγμα για τον εαυτό του. Κι έχουν δίκιο. Λοιπόν; »

I'm on the cross. be kind and they put you on the cross. that son of a bitch on his couch talking about Mahler and Kant and cunt and revolution, not really knowing about any of them.

De los millones de mujeres que ves, aparece de pronto una que te impresiona. Hay algo en sus formas, en cómo está hecha, en el vestido concreto que lleva, algo, a lo que no puedes sobreponerte.

Roy had communicated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk - unreliable - either faint-hearted or vicious - therefore during the cerimony, don't ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. or he might loose the rings, or vomit, or loose Bukowski

hell, I worked HARD all my life!” (they think this is a virtue, but it only proves a man is a damn fool.)

as lojas de conveniência não têm nada de mal, buk, diz o editor. e eu conheço um outro tipo que diz «a guerra não tem nada de mal». mas, porra, tenho de confiar nas minhas neuroses e preconceitos porque é tudo o que me resta.

But what could be the purpose of the unseasonable toil, which was again resumed, as the watchman knew by the lines of lamp-light through the crevices of Owen Warland's shutters? The townspeople had one comprehensive explanation of all these singularities. Owen Warland had gone mad! How universally efficacious--how satisfactory, too, and soothing to the injured sensibility of narrowness and dullness--is this easy method of accounting for whatever lies beyond the world's most ordinary scope! - "The Artist of the Beautiful

Saber mantener el equilibrio justo entre soledad y gente, ésa es la clave, ésa es la táctica, para no acabar en el manicomio.

if they can exist on just these fragments of things, then I can exist too.

there are some people who must always go somewhere. ‘let’s go to a movie!’ ‘let’s go boating!’ ‘let’s get laid!’ ‘screw all that stuff,’ I always say, ‘just let me sit here.

You scared?" asked Garson. "Yes," I said, "but what about?

the world was molested with billions of people who had nothing to do with their time except murder it and murder you.

So there I was: neither an intellectual, an artist; nor did I have the saving roots of the common man. I hung like something labeled in between, and I guess, yes, that is the beginning of insanity.

but I’ve been lucky lucky for each man and each woman has brought me something and left me something, and I no longer must feel like Jeffers behind a stone wall, and I’ve been lucky in another way for what fame I have is largely hidden and quiet and I’ll hardly ever be a Henry Miller with people camping on my front lawn, the gods have been very good to me, they’ve kept me alive and even, still kicking, taking notes, observing, feeling the goodness of good people, feeling the miracle run up my arm like a crazy mouse. such a life, given to me at the age of 48, even though tomorrow does not know is the sweetest of the sweet dreams.

Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in the world." The sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstraction. "Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always covet—your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you—you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in he world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more—the susceptible person myself possibly among them—will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race.

but perhaps it will help if we all realize that perhaps all of us have been pests at one time or another to somebody but we never knew it. shit, it’s a horrible thought but most probably true and maybe it will help us bear up under the pest. basically, there is no 100 percent man. we are all run through with various madnesses and uglinesses that we ourselves are not aware of but that everybody else is aware of. how ya gonna keep us down on the farm?

An obsession, a mania, Lib supposed it could be called. A sickness of the mind. Hysteria, as that awful doctor had named it? Anna reminded Lib of a princess under a spell in a fairy tale. What could restore the girl to ordinary life? Not a prince. A magical herb from the world's end? Some shock to jolt a poisoned bite of apple out of her throat? No, something simple as a breath of air: reason. What if Lib shook the girl awake this very minute and said, Come to your senses! But that was part of the definition of madness, Lib supposed, the refusal to accept that one was mad. Standish's wards were full of such people. Besides, could children ever be considered quite of sound mind? Seven was counted the age of reason, but Lib's sense of seven-year-olds was that they still brimmed over with imagination. Children lived to play. Of course they could be put to work, but in spare moments they took their games as seriously as lunatics did their delusions. Like small gods, children formed their miniature worlds out of clay, or even just words. To them, the truth was never simple. But Anna was eleven, which was a far cry from seven, Lib argued with herself. Other eleven-year-olds knew when they'd eaten and when they hadn't; they were old enough to tell make-believe from fact. There was something very different about - very wrong with - Anna O'Donnell.

oddities only strike ordinary people. Oddities do not strike odd people. This is why ordinary people have a much more exciting time; while odd people are always complaining of the dulness of life. This is also why the new novels die so quickly, and why the old fairy tales endure for ever. The old fairy tale makes the hero a normal human boy; it is his adventures that are startling; they startle him because he is normal. But in the modern psychological novel the hero is abnormal; the centre is not central. Hence the fiercest adventures fail to affect him adequately, and the book is monotonous. You can make a story out of a hero among dragons; but not out of a dragon among dragons. The fairy tale discusses what a sane man will do in a mad world. The sober realistic novel of to-day discusses what an essential lunatic will do in a dull world.

It is the homogeneity of his mind which makes him dull, and which makes him mad. It is only because we see the irony of his idea that we think him even amusing; it is only because he does not see the irony of his idea that he is put in Hanwell at all. In short, oddities only strike ordinary people. Oddities do not strike odd people. This is why ordinary people have a much more exciting time; while odd people are always complaining of the dulness of life. This is also why the new novels die so quickly, and why the old fairy tales endure for ever. The old fairy tale makes the hero a normal human boy; it is his adventures that are startling; they startle him because he is normal. But in the modern psychological novel the hero is abnormal; the centre is not central. Hence the fiercest adventures fail to affect him adequately, and the book is monotonous. You can make a story out of a hero among dragons; but not out of a dragon among dragons. The fairy tale discusses what a sane man will do in a mad world. The sober realistic novel of to-day discusses what an essential lunatic will do in a dull world.

they simply couldn’t tell me that they didn’t have a cigarette. they had to give me their pitch, their religion: cigarettes were for cubes. they were going to Malibu, to some seeming loose and easy shack in Malibu and burn a bit of grass. they remind me, in a sense, of old ladies standing on a corner selling “The Watchtower.” the whole LSD, STP, marijuana, heroin, hashish, prescription cough medicine crowd suffers from the “Watchtower” itch: you gotta be with us, man, or you’re out, you’re dead. this pitch is a continual and seeming MUST with those who use the stuff. it’s no wonder they keep getting busted – they can’t use the stuff quietly for their pleasure; they have to make it KNOWN that they are members.

Пощенските служители трябва да се държат по определен начин. Вие сте публични лица. Трябва да сте пример за благоприличие.

Една вечер ми позвъни Чери. „Защо не идваш на събиранията на стъф? Много му липсваш.“ „Какво? Какво, по дяволите, говориш Чери? Дрогирана ли си?“ „Не, Ханк, сериозно ти говоря. Всички те обичаме. Ела на следващото събиране, моля те!“ „Ще си помисля.“ „Мъртви са без теб.“ „Мъртви са и с мен.“ „Имаме нужда от теб, приятелю.“ „Ще си помисля, Чери.

Хайънс ми позвъни; „Имам една идея, искам да ми събереш най-добрите поети и писатели, които познаваш, за да издадем една литературна антология.“ Събрах ги. Издаде я. И ченгетата заведоха дело срещу него за разпространение на порнографска литература. Бях добър човек. Обадих му се. „Хайънс?“ „Да.“ „Знам, че имаш проблеми около тази история, и затова реших да пиша безплатно за теб. Доларите, които бих получил, нека отиват за съдебните разноски.“ „Благодаря ти много“ — каза. И ето как Джо Хайънс имаше на разположение най-доброто перо на Америка, без да плаща пукнат цент.

„Какво вър­шиш сега?“- попита. „Нищо. Нищо не мога да върша. От нищо не се интересувам.“ „Аз също. Ако беше жена, би могъл да ста­неш проститутка.“ „Не мисля, че бих могъл да пона­сям тесни кон­такти с тол­кова много непоз­нати. Умо­ри­телно е.“ „Прав си, умо­ри­телно е, всичко е уморително.

може би някой ден, когато светът се сътвори отново с достойнство и честност, чумата няма да е вече чума. една теория твърди, че този вид хора са създадени от нещата, които не трябваше да ги има: лошо правителство, замърсена околна среда, проблеми в секса, майка с дървена ръка, баща, който чука кобили и т.н. не знаем дали някога ще се изгради утопичното общество, но засега ни остава да се справим с някои параноични страни, присъщи на човечеството: ордите от гладни — бели, черни, червени, дремещите бомби, събранията за любовта, хипарите, не чак до там хипарите, Джонсън, хлебарките, некачествената бира, гонореята, тъпашките статии по вестниците, еди-какво си, еди-що си, и чумата. чумата още съществува. аз живея днес, а не утре. собствената ми утопия изисква СЕГА по-малко чуми. бих искал да чуя и вашата история. сигурен съм, че всеки един от вас познава по един-двама мак-клиндоковци. ще ме разсмеете с вашите перипетии. а, да не забравя!!! НИКОГА НЕ СЪМ ЧУВАЛ МАК КЛИНДОК ДА СЕ СМЕЕ!!! мислете върху това! спомнете си всички чуми, които познавате, и се сетете дали са се смели някога. чули ли сте ги да се смеят? господи, сега като се сетя, дори и аз се смея рядко, смея се само, когато съм сам. чудя се: да не би да съм писал за себе си? чума, преследвана от чуми. представете си една цяла колония от чуми, които не мирясват.

Jei tu esi vienintelis, matantis vaizdinius, tave vadina šventuoju arba pamišeliu.

visi esam prisiklausę senučių, kurios dejuoja: „ak, koks SIAUBAS, ką tas jaunimas su savim daro, visi tie narkotikai, kitoks šlamštas! tai siaubinga!“ o tada jūs pasižiūrit į tą seną raganą: nei akių, nei dantų, nei smegenų, nei sielos, nei šiknos, nei burnos, nei spalvų, nei gyvybės, nei humoro - nieko, perdžiūvęs pagalys ir tada imate stebėtis, ką su ja padarė arbatėlė su sausainiais, bažnyčia ir namas ant kampo. o ir seniai kartais pasiunta dėl to, kuo dabar užsiima jaunimas: „po velnių, aš SUNKIAI dirbau visą savo gyvenimą!“ (jie mano tai esant dorybe, tačiau tai tik įrodo, kad žmogus - visiškas mulkis). „jie viską nori gaut UŽ DYKĄ! sėdi, žudo save narkotikais, nieko neveikia ir nori prašmatniai gyvent!“ o tada pažiūrėk į JĮ: amen. jis ne tik pavydi. jį išdūrė. prapiso geriausius jo metus. jam, iš tikrųjų, taip norisi linksmybių. jeigu tik jis galėtų pradėt viską iš pradžių. bet negali. todėl ir nori, kad visi kentėtų, kaip ir jis kenčia.

wow, a change, you know. that’s what kills a man: lack of change.

¿no hay gente feliz? —hay mucha gente que finge ser feliz. —¿por qué? —porque están avergonzados y asustados y no tienen el valor de admitirlo. —¿tú estás asustado? —yo sólo tengo el valor de admitirlo contigo... estoy tan asustado y tengo tanto miedo, mamá, que podría morirme en este mismo instante.

did you ever consider that lsd and color tv arrived for our consumption about the same time? here comes all this explorative color pounding, and what do we do? we outlaw one and fuck up the other. t.v., of course, is useless in present hands; there’s not much of a hell of an argument here. and I read where in a recent raid it was alleged that an agent caught a container of acid in the face, hurled by alleged manufacturer of a hallucinogenic drug. this is also a kind of a waste. there are some basic grounds for outlawing lsd, dmt, stp – it can take a man permanently out of his mind – but so can picking beets, or turning bolts for GM, or washing dishes or teaching English I at one of the local universities. if we outlawed everything that drove men mad, the whole social structure would drop out – marriage, the war, bus service, slaughterhouses, beekeeping, surgery, anything you can name. anything can drive men mad because society is built on false stilts. until we knock the whole bottom out and rebuild, the madhouses will remain overlooked.

Oyleyse okur,catlak Jimmy`i bir an icin birakip Arthur`a gecelim -ki hic sorun degil- yazma tarzimi kastediyorum burada : sa[a sola sicarim ve siz de hic zorlanmadan benimle gelirsiniz. Hic onemi yoktur,gorursunuz.

Tabi,Hank ne zaman istersen bende sicabilirsin.

Bir suru farkli yolu vardi delirmenin.

Devrimin disaridan iceriye dogru degil,iceriden disariya dogru gerceklesmesi gerektigini anlattim ona, asil sorun burada. Bu tiplerin ayaklanma baslar baslamaz yaptiklari ilk sey gidip bir renkli televizyon yagmalamak. Dusmani yari-zeka yapan ayni zehri kendileri icin de istiyorlar.

Ayni zamanda dustuk o boktan ise,ortak bir yan. Daha cok sonsuza dek bokun icinde yuzmek istemedigimiz icin. Her ne kadar bok iyi bir hoca olsa da insanin alabilecegi dersler sinirliydi, sonra bogulup gidiyordunuz bokun icinde.

Adam yere yaklasiyor,hala ipleri cozmeye cabaliyordu. Sonra yere carpti. Carpmasi ile havaya sicramasi bir oldu. Parasut ustunu orttu. Kalan atlayislari iptal ettiler. Hava gosterisi bitmke uzereydi. Unutulacak tipten bir sey degildi gorduklerimiz. Ucak kazalari,parasutcu ve yanik. Bisikletlerimizi eve pedallarken yol boyunca onlari konustuk. Hayat hayli ilginc birsey olacakmis gibi gelmisti bize.

Firsat bulup ona bir insanin polis uniformasini uzerine gecirdigi andan itibaren mevcut duzenin maasli bekcisi oldugunu anlatamazsin.Polisin isi degisimi engellemektir. Gidisattan hosnutsaniz butun polisler iyidir,degilseniz kotudur.

Dehsetin dehset olduguna inandiginiz anda daha az dehsete dusersiniz.

Gercegin gercek olabilmesi icin en az iki oy gerekiyordu.Yasadiklari zamanin ilerisinde olan insanlar bunu bilirler,deliler ve sanri gorenler de . Bir hayali yalniz sen goruyorsan ya aziz derler adama ya da deli.

Yasalar zehirli karaborsalarda kendi zehirlerini yaratir.

Isa psikiyatirlarin ve egolarin en buyuguydu. Tanri'nin oglu oldugunu idia etti.Paragozleri kliseden atti. Yaptigi en buyuk hata. Sictilar agzina.Bir civi tasarruf etmek icin ayaklarini ust uste civilediler. Ne boktan is.

в барах можно многое почерпнуть, но потом от них нельзя отвязаться. Они возникают на каждом шагу. Посетители баров похожи на посетителей грошовых лавчонок: они убивают время и все остальное.

вся беда интеллектуалов и писателей в том, что они ни черта не чувствуют, кроме собственного комфорта или собственной боли. что,в общем-то, нормально, но гнусно.

perhaps it will help if we all realize that perhaps all of us have been pests at one time or another to somebody but we never knew it. shit, it's a horrible thought but most probably true and maybe it will help us bear up under the pest. basically, there is no 100 percent man. we are all run through with various madnesses and ugliness that we ourselves are not aware of but that everyone else is aware of.

when a man puts that uniform on that he is the paid protector of things of the present time. he is here to see that things stay the way they are. if you like the way things are, then all cops are good cops. if you don’t like the way things are, then all cops are bad cops.

you never get a chance to explain to him that when a man puts that uniform on that he is the paid protector of things of the present time. he is here to see that things stay the way they are. if you like the way things are, then all cops are good cops. if you don’t like the way things are, then all cops are bad cops.

to ask them to legalize pot is something like asking them to put butter on the handcuffs before they place them on you, something else is hurting you – that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.

The human race had always disgusted me. Essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which like a sore, a leprosy, became then: your next door neighbor, your neighborhood, your district, your city, your county, your state, your nation ... everybody grabbing each other’s assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity.

one day at a racetrack can teach you more than four years at any university.

Whatever happened to the sweet & easy nights ? Why doesn't this happen to Walter Winchell who believes in the American Way ?

foi então que reparei que eu era o único tipo na prisão sem meias. deveriam estar uns 150 naquela cela e 149 tinham meias calçadas. muitos deles acabadinhos de sair de vagões. eu era o único sem meias. uma pessoa pode bater no fundo e descobrir outro fundo. que treta.

Charles - disse ela. - Vera - disse eu. - o que foi? - perguntou ela. - sou o maior poeta do mundo - disse-lhe eu. - morto ou vivo? - perguntou ela. - morto - disse eu, esticando o braço e agarrando um seio. - adorava espetar-te um bacalhau vivo pelo cu acima, Vera! - porquê? - sei lá. ela puxou para baixo o vestido. eu acabei o copo de uísque. - tu mijas da crica, nao mijas? - acho que sim. - enfim, é o problema das mulheres.

I reached over, opened it in the middle, and began reading Tolstoy's War and Peace. Nothing had changed. It was still a lousy book.