Quotes About Expression

Pantolon için, elden düÅŸme deÄŸil)... götten düÅŸme denmesi laz?m.

Unsheathe your dagger definitions.

I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use---silence, exile and cunning.

So beautiful of course compared with what a man looks like with his two bags full and his other thing hanging down out of him or sticking up at you like a hatrack no wonder they hide it with a cabbageleaf

I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use-- silence, exile, and cunning.

Non servirò ciò in cui non credo più, si chiami questo la casa, la patria o la Chiesa: e tenterò di esprimere me stesso in un qualunque modo di vita o di arte quanto più potrò liberamente e integralmente, adoperando per difendermi le sole armi che mi concedo di usare: il silenzio, l'esilio e l'astuzia.

If my Spreadeagles Wasn't so Tight I'd Loosen my Cursits on that Bunch of Maggiestraps...

You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning.

I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of art as freely as I can, and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning.

Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?

It made me sad to see your eyes. I cannot say why.

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.

Ay say aye. I affirmly swear to it that it rooly and cooly boolyhooly was with my holyhagionous lips continuously poised upon the rubricated annuals of saint ulstar.

And, as a mere matter of ficfect, I tell of myself how I popo possess the ripest littlums wifukie around the globelettes globes (...)

With a pansy for the pussy in the corner.

One feels that one is listening to thought-tormented music

Havvah-ban-Annah

You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you...

shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart...

Tell me. Tell me with your eyes.

excrementitious intelligence...

He addle liddle phifie Annie ugged the little craythur.

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.