It was part of his personal code not to make use of his memory for money.

He is troubled by an image of himself, suffers when he is named.

Although I have already drawn many alphabets, I am only at the first letters, the first fields, the first foothills, the first paths, the first approaches, the first concords, the first gardens.

Cinema of the Blind! Every cinema should be called that. Their flickering images blind people to reality!

(What could have conditioned him? Presence? ... Time, breath, gait, questioning? ... )

... and he fell more miserably than he on whose fall that mighty clamour was raised, which entered through his ears, and unlocked his eyes, to make way for the striking and beating down of his soul ...

I can see the coral
underneath the water
glowing in my poems
there's mangroves
along the shore &
some typical event
occurs--you laugh
at me asleep in a
glass-bottomed boat
or we invent
a beautiful sequence
of implied emotions
arriving by virtue
of strange location
among flora & fauna
growing vaguer as
I write this down
& you, once vividly
a matter of detail,
take over the whole
picture & disappear.

Walking: That's my job, walking and waiting.

His eyes were full of people.

It was curious that a machine could reproduce the anxiety of the person operating it.

I'm tired of lights that go out at midnight.

In that case, I'll miss the thing by waiting.

Daydreaming my dry-as-dust thoughts.

a chunky piece of bread, a day or two old, toasted and thickly smeared all over with vegemite as water-proofing (for a very small donkey to raft on).

He is such a hive and swarm of parasites that it is doubtful whether his body is not more theirs than his, and whether he is anything but another kind of ant-heap after all. May not man himself become a sort of parasite upon the machines?

... human life was thus image-graced and image-cursed; it could comprehend itself only through images, the images were not to be banished, they had been with us since the herd-beginning ...

Jellyfish? It seems to be little more than organised water.
... boxing is disciplined anger, structured force and organised sweat.

It's a question of the refrain that fixes me in front of the screen.

The master cord of the man in grey had been touched, and it seemed as if it would never cease vibrating.

... the dawn of things, before betrayals and downstream mud.

Sol LeWitt remarked that the wood from his one-man show (John Daniels Gallery, 1965) should be "used for firewood".
If we worshipped the wood of the image, should we not burn the icon when the representation grew faint?

One Sunday during the summer of 1973 I was ready. Using a number of tricks, I worked myself into a mood of concentrated rage and excited determination. The fight could begin.

... it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.

He had never been a sniveler after the ineffable.

No one, however smart, however well educated, however experienced, is the suppository of all wisdom.

Let us place the eye under the control of touch.

Police initially tried to appeal to the protesters to move through a loud speaker.

It is the feet of clay that makes the gold of the image precious.

To write a poem that has the properties of a diamond: transparency, sparkle, hardness, impenetrability.

Where images disappear, they must be replaced by images: if not, loss threatens.

The strangest part of the dream, said Pelletier, was that the water was alive.

Ah, the pirates! the pirates!
The passion for something illegal and savage,
The passion to do absolutely cruel, abominable things
Like an abstract rut gnawing at our fragile bodies,
Our delicate feminine nerves,
Making great mad fevers burn in our empty gazes!
Let me always gloriously assume the submissive role
In bloody happenings and quartered sensualities!

The assistant had left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon ... lying shivered into fragments.

I followed them with my eyes and saw how high they soared in one breath, till I felt not that they were rising but that I was falling ...

The optics aren't what they look like.

The closer he came to this deceptive image of the island's shore, the more this image receded; it continued to flee from him, and he knew not what to think of this flight.

I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

Bell, peering between the helmeted heads of the two men in front of him, blinked suddenly as if struck in the face by a sea wave while swimming.

The orifice is open to question, if that's what it is.

Uccello doesn't give a damn, gets cheated by some chubby monk, shits on his face, resorts to violence.

The silk grey of the contre temps
The troubled grey of time
The grey the grief.

He had a white buttocky face with a few moles, and fat curling thumbs that put a cheating spin on the ball.

I shall not seem fanciful in thinking of social man as a veritable somnambulist ... The social, like the hypnotic state, is only a form of dream.

I ascribe my failure in life to the well-known fact that I have not succeeded.

Many times I have waited for her in that yielding room.

Rufus Dawes did not understand the silence ... His faculties of hearing and thinking (...) seemed to break down. It was as though some prop had been knocked from under him.

A clicky-click tripod-supported optical eavesdropper.

Each click would expose the clerk and his store to partial annihilation.

Time saws me like a coin, and I -
I don't suffice, not even for myself.

And all you were doing was stealing chickens, nailing things to the wall. Everytime you stopped playing you became a lie.

So it is with life, death, and eternity, things that would be quite simple to anyone who had organs vast enough to comprehend them.

... coating his words with the grease of his smile.

How we see things determines how we act and even who 'we' are, as the fragile temper of our acts breaks like a bubble from the drowning mouth and into the air, shaping these identities to begin with.

Happenstance must be the matter of unceasing and rigorous calculation.

Every orientation presupposes a disorientation.

"I must verify", says the Postmistress, "I cannot charge my client for an uncertainty."

There was a bubble around things thus captured, a hermetic breathlessness and a pressure that squeezed the perspective flat.

... she looked a little toneless in here, away from the sundance of poolside light, her face deprived of its unquiet shading ...

Ms. Mekhennet asked her interrogator, "Where are we?" The interrogator answered, "You are nowhere."

Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world.

Not built for the ages but rather against the ages.

DAY, n. A period of 24 hours, mostly misspent.

Easy methods! But are we really sure of swimming in the ocean by putting a box of salt in our bathtub?

I have a horror of all metiers.

They believe in themselves, which is almost the same as being good.

It wasn't a thing of a monstrous order; not a fate rare and distinguished; not a stroke of fortune that overwhelmed and immortalised; it had only the stamp of the common doom.

Perception of an object costs
Precise the Object's loss -
Perception in itself a Gain
Replying to its Price -

The Object Absolute - is nought -
Perception sets it fair
And then upbraids a Perfectness
That situates so far -

I like nativity scenes, I just can't stand the poverty of the shepherds!

They lived in a suburb arrived at only by secondary roads.

each image
getting less and less attractive,
like the beginning of a slander
on the one that went before.

It's not that fast horses are rare, but men who know enough to spot them are few and far between.

He had failed to work up a fresh sense of indignation. As his chemistry master used to say, the solution was already saturated. Saturated with indignation.

If there's no bottom in your eyes they hold more.

Expression diminishes you, impoverishes you, lifts weights off you: expression is a loss of substance, and liberation. It drains you, hence it saves you, it strips you of an encumbering overflow.

Such is therefore a look lacking terror, a look that does not learn, but that follows.

How do you get to the point of a sabbath, that is legitimate and deserved?

My dad and I share the same shadow.

There's no whining in baseball.

With a single note they muffle a thousand possibilities.

Pay no heed. They'd all have you circling if you paid them heed.

Sometimes to refute a single sentence it is necessary to tell a life story.

He speaks like a flopped somersault and behaves like a big improbability pummeled into human shape.

A page of printed prose should bring to it's mimesis something extra, a kind of supernatural as it were, to lend roundness - a fine excess that corresponds with the intricacy and opacity of the real world.

Hoarding and squandering filched the bright world's glee away...

I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me Catatonia or give me Charlie Chaplin. At the moment, a great many of us live in our 51st state, Catatonia ... Since I choose to live outside that state, I wear the Fool's motley. It makes things easier ... Fools of the world unite. You have nothing to lose.

... the blighting power of the 'eye' made nearly everyone artificial.

In the Parsee Ahab saw his forethrown shadows, in Ahab the Parsee his abandoned substance.

people too big for tidy-tiny repetitive existence.

What a blank space I seemed, that everybody overlooked, yet, I was in the way.

Illiterates have to dictate.

Rennet of memory on a swooned body, its perfectly white belly cast in shadow.

All they live by has been handled by others.

al mirall mogut

IN RIVERS north of the future
I cast the net that you
haltingly weight
with stonewrit

My creatures are born of a long denial.

I can tell them to go, and they go; but sometimes they come when I don't tell them to come.

I can't. I'm too nervous to eat pie.

There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong.

They mistrusted openings, gateways, roads by which unhappiness might arrive.

"Do you suppose there is something to be done?" I asked her, "Huddle and cling," said Mrs. Davis. "We can huddle and cling. It will pall, of course, everything palls, in time ..."

Where there is veneration,
Even a dog's tooth emits light.

It made one think of the prisons of the spirit men create for themselves and for others - so overpowering,
So much a part of the way things appear to have to be and then abruptly, with a little shift, so insubstantial.

There can be a poverty as well as a wealth in explicitness.

Spending plenty of time on something can be the most sophisticated form of revenge.

Pressure of memory upon a fainting body, its stomach shaded yet perfectly white.

When I'm in the water anything is possible - it is gravity that lets me down.

The world strikes me as a hurdy-gurdy overpressurized with trite rechurning.

... that duffed hybrid in the rough.

Drink a cicada soup, and you'll be singing all right.

The only things that appear are those which are first able to dissimulate themselves. Things already grasped in their aspect or peacefully resembling themselves never appear. They are apparent, of course, but only apparent: they will never be given to us as appearing.

It wasn't my kind of shallow.

Gathering the children from (or for?) the cache.

I live only here, between your eyes and you,
But I live in your world. What do I do?
- Collect no interest - otherwise what I can;
Above all I am not that staring man.

It is sometimes necessary to remain faithful to an idea one has loved, even if one knows this idea to be dying.

God created everything from nothing, but the nothingness shows through.

One must do as the animals do, who erase every footprint in front of their lair.

There commeth much evill in the eares, but more at the eyes.

Nothing is missing, not even, and especially, nothingness, the true solidifier of the scene.

Damned misleading silhouette!

Hell is the place of those who have denied;
They find there what they planted and what dug,
A Lake of Spaces, and a Wood of Nothing,
And wander there and drift, and never cease
Wailing for substance.

All lightly shimmering in the heat, these lifeforms, like wonders much reduced. Rough likenesses thrown up at hearsay after the things themselves had faded in men's minds.

There's no better time to think big thoughts than under the guise of doing something.

Why this sudden affability after such desertion (...) ?

Our nothings are barely different.