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I've tried it long ago, with hashish and peyote. Fascinating, yes, but no good, no. This, as we find in alcohol, is an escape from awareness, a cheat, a momentary substitution, and in the end a destruction of it.

Conrad Aiken

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Conrad Aiken
Age: 84 †
Born: 1889
Born: August 5
Died: 1973
Died: August 17
Essayist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Savannah
Georgia
Conrad Aiken
Destruction
Peyote
Tried
Hashish
Awareness
Substitution
Ends
Momentary
Find
Cheat
Long
Fascinating
Good
Alcohol
Escape

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I really don't know enough about the structure of fiction.
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Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.
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The days, the nights, flow one by one above us. The hours go silently over our lifted faces. We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee.
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Forward into the untrodden! Courage, old man, and hold on to your umbrella!
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Time in the heart and sequence in the brain-- Such as destroyed Rimbaud and fooled Verlaine. And let us then take godhead by the neck-- And strangle it, and with it, rhetoric.
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All lovely things will have an ending, all lovely things will fade and die and youth, that's now so bravely spending, Will beg a penny by and by.
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Oh, I've discarded a great many [poems]. And occasionally I've discarded and then resurrected. I would find a crumpled yellow ball of paper in the wastebasket, in the morning, and open it to see what the hell I'd been up to and occasionally it was something that needed only a very slight change to be brought off, which I'd missed the day before.
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We are the ghosts of the singing furies .
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[At a musical concert:] . . . the music's pure algebra of enchantment.
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I always hankered to be a composer - I was mad about music, though I never studied seriously, and can't read a note. But I learned to play the piano and became pretty skillful at improvisation, especially after a drop or two.
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Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam ... and after a while they will fall to dust and rain or else we will tear them down with impatient hands and hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
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The hiss was now becoming a roar - the whole world was a vast moving screen of snow - but even now it said peace, it said remoteness, it said cold, it said sleep.
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The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
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Death is one dream out of another flowing.
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The wind shrieks, the wind grieves It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.
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My heart has become as hard as a city street, the horses trample upon it, it sings like iron, all day long and all night long they beat, they ring like the hooves of time.
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Separate we come, and separate we go, And this be it known, is all that we know.
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I began by doing book reviews on the typewriter and then went over to short stories on the machine, meanwhile sticking to pencil for poetry.
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Death is never an ending, death is a change Death is beautiful, for death is strange Death is one dream out of another flowing.
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I love you, what star do you live on?
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