the gods are done with me and them and this, the last useless word looking for a place to die.
I climbed off a park bench to engage the giants of literature in battle. I lived with women madder than the gods themselves.
I lived on a candy bar a day. I was engaging the giants of literature. the ladies descended like locusts. I threw people off my front porch. I was engaging the giants. the giants were not aware of this. only I was aware. I climed off the park bench to engage the giants of literature.
I didn’t think that they were all that good.
tell me, do you?
this darkness shakes me like a dirty rag! human waste on parade throughout the centuries! why am I the last one alive? there’s no answer to that.
for want of something to do we keep slaying our small dragons as the big one waits.
it has to be madness, it was always madness, this endless search for the ultimate truth that still can’t be stopped.
about our argument tonight whatever it was about and no matter how unhappy it made us feel
remember that there is a cat somewhere adjusting to the space of itself with a delightful grace
in other words magic persists without us no matter what we may try to do to spoil it.
the last war will be one man sitting in a chair laughing at it all.
– Quotes from “Bone Palace Ballet: new poems” by Charles Bukowski
War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.
Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.
But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.
It’s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.
Being in a minority, even in a minority of one,
did not make you mad.
There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world,
you were not mad.
We do not merely destroy our enemies; we change them.
If you can feel that staying human is worth while, even when it can’t have any result whatever, you’ve beaten them.
The masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so long as they are not permitted to have standards of comparison, they never even become aware that they are oppressed.
To die hating them, that was freedom.
Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal.
The end was contained in the beginning.
The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent.
Tragedy, he percieved, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there were still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to know the reason.