Quotes About Expression

I don't know why I started writing. I don't know why anybody does it. Maybe they're bored, or failures at something else.

The way of the world is to bloom and to flower and die but in the affairs of men there is no waning and the noon of his expression signals the onset of night. His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.

She looked up at him and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and he could see her throat move in the light and he saw in her face and in her figure something he'd not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow.

You are either born a writer or you are not.

I look for the words, Professor. I look for the words because I believe that the words is the way to your heart.

My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold and anything else is just a waste of time.

Words are things. The words he is in possession of he cannot be deprived of. Their authority transcends his ignorance of their meaning.

Bears that dance, bears that don't.

Writing is very subconscious and the last thing I want to do is think about it.

The soul might be silent but the servant of the soul has always got a voice and it has got one for a reason.

He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.

What do you say to em? Say to them? Yeah. Say. Hell, say anything. It doesnt matter, they dont listen. Well you gotta say somethin. What do you say? Try the direct approach. What's that? Well, like this friend of mine. Went up to this girl and said I sure would like to have a little pussy. No shit? What'd she say? She said I would too. Mine's as big as your hat.

She raised her eyes and looked at him. He'd never seen despair before. He thought he had, but he had not.

What you write down becomes fixed. It takes on the constraints of any tangible entity. It collapses into a reality estranged from the realm of its creation. It's a marker. A roadsign. You have stopped to get your bearings, but at a price. You'll never know where it might have gone if you'd left it alone to go there.

If God meant to interfere in the degeneracy of mankind would he not have done so by now? Wolves cull themselves, man. What other creature could? And is the race of man not more predacious yet? The way of the world is to bloom and to flower and die but in the affairs of men there is no waning and the moon of his expression signals the onset of night. His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.

So where does music come from?

She brings back these costumes and you have to wear them. Most recently we were dressed as rabbits. The odd thing is that she would really get into it. We'd have sex in these rabbit suits and she would squeal and stamp her feet.

Each man is the bard of his own existence. This is how he is joined to the world.

place of being except in the telling only and there it lives and makes its home and therefore we can never be done with the telling.

Words are things.

Whoo, he said when he saw them. I'm drunkern shit.

If you stretched a piece of music—so to speak—as the tone drew away the color would fade.

This is what Great Art does. It becomes more real than the real, more true than the truth.

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