This search for perfection - which is a search for divinity - is nothing more than the failure to accept our existence the way it is.
You'll find God in the church of your choice, you'll find Woody Guthrie in the Brooklyn State Hospital.
You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
All the money you made will never buy back your soul.
He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich.
The dirt of gossip blows into my face and the dust rumors cover me. But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick, it can pierce through dust no matter how thick.
You have to work out where your place is. And who you are. But we're all spirit. That's all we are, we're just walking dressed up in a suit of skin, and we're going to leave that behind.
To those privileged ones -- among whom we count ourselves -- the high-resounding "isms" to which their contemporaries ask them to give their allegiance are all equally futile: bound to be betrayed, defeated, and finally rejected by men at large, if containing anything really noble; bound to enjoy, for the time being, some sort of noisy success, if sufficiently vulgar, pretentious, and soul-killing to appeal to the growing number of mechanically conditioned slaves that crawl about our planet, posing as free men; all destined to prove, ultimately, of no avail.
To handle paint the way Pollock did, you need the muscularity of a ballet dancer.
These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.
Persons, especially salaried people who schedule their spare time, to provide for home study (or attend specialized short courses, seminars or training) seldom remain at the bottom very long. Their action opens the way for the upward climb, removes many obstacles from their path, and gains the friendly interest of those who have the power to put them in the way of opportunity