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Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an angel!

Allen Ginsberg

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Allen Ginsberg
Age: 70 †
Born: 1926
Born: June 3
Died: 1997
Died: April 5
Autobiographer
Diarist
Musician
Photographer
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Teacher
Writer
Paterson
New Jersey
Irwin Allen Ginsberg
Ayālena Gīnasabārga
Alen Ginzberg
Eternity
Everyday
Holy
Everybody
Everything
Everyman
Everywhere
Angel

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To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. Become a saint of your own province and your own consciousness.
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That's what the shaman said. He didn't know what he was up against. He didn't expect the strength and weight and evil intensity of this spirit, this entity, as he called it. The same way the priest in an exorcism has to take on the spirit.
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in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
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You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening. If you're grasping to get your own voice, you're making a strained attempt to talk, so it's a matter of just listening to yourself as you sound when you're talking about something that's intensely important to you.
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I want to be a saint, a real saint while I am young, for there is so much work to do.
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I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
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Let go of the spirit of the departed, and continue the celebration of your own life.
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I like the image of The Old Man and the Sea, of striving and succeeding but finding that the success was ghost success. In other words, in the long run, after a certain age, the motives for success, pride or oppressing people or getting power.
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I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
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What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
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Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
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Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph
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What is obscenity? And to whom?
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