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Everybody's serious but me.
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
Serious
Everybody
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War is good business Invest your son
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The soul is innocent and immortal, it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse.
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You can't photograph everything.
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To gain your own voice you have to forget about having it heard.
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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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The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
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This is the one and only firmament therefore it is the absolute world. There is no other world. The circle is complete. I am living in Eternity. The ways of this world are the ways of Heaven.
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My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
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Because systems of mass communication can communicate only officially acceptable levels of reality, no one can know the extent of the secret unconscious life. No one in America can know what will happen. No one is in real control.
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I saw the best minds of my generation who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade.
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Sometime I’ll lay down my wrath, As I lay my body down Between the ache of breath and breath, Golden slumber in the bone.
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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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Taxi September along Jessore Road Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load past watery fields thru rain flood ruts Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts Wet processions Families walk Stunted boys big heads don't talk Look bony skulls & silent round eyes Starving black angels in human disguise.
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The suffering itself is not so bad it's the resentment against suffering that is the real pain.
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Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
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So the problem for the poetic artist or the photographer is the common problem of continuous attentiveness, continuous attempts to notice what he is noticing, continuous alertness to catch himself thinking or seeing, devotional attentiveness to the world he's moving through.
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The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstacy is holy!
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America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
Allen Ginsberg
I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I'll never be sane.
Allen Ginsberg
I don't do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision.
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