When I look down into this fucked out cunt of a whore I feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull.

Henry Miller

Henry Miller

Profession: Author
Nationality: American

Some suggestions for you :

I want to undress you, vulgarize you a bit.

I will sing while you croak.

All my life I had been looking forward for something happening, some intrinsic event that would alter my life, and now suddenly, inspired by the absolute hopelessness of everything, I felt relieved, felt as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

Life was a perpetual black fuck about a fixed pole of insomnia.

Music issuing like fire from the hidden chromosphere of pain, spore and madrepore fructifying the earth, navels vomiting their bright spawn of anguish... He is a bright sage, a dancing sear who, with a sweep of the brush, removes the ugly scaffold to which the body of man is chained by the incontrovertible facts of life.

Why do lovely faces haunt us so? Do extraordinary flowers have evil roots?

The world is not to be put in order; the world is order, incarnate. It is for us to harmonize with this order.

It is the obscene horror, the dry, fucked-out aspect of things which makes this crazy civilization look like a crater. It is this great yawning gulf of nothingness which the creative spirits and mothers of the race carry between their legs.

The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain.

One can fight evil but against stupidity one is helpless.

The life which, if i were still a man with pride, honor, ambition and so forth, would seem like the bottom rung of degredation. It's a negative reality, just like death -- a sort of heaven without the pain and terror of dying.

I used to think then that all the tragic events of life were written down in books and that what went on outside was just diluted crap.

Music is a beautiful opiate, if you don't take it too seriously.

She wouldn't remember that at a certain corner I had stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain there forever, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole Latin civilization wiped out forever and ever.