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A God who counts minutes and pennies, a desperate sensual God, who grunts like a pig. A pig with golden wings, who falls and falls, always belly side up, ready for caresses, that’s him, our master. Come, kiss me.

Louis-Ferdinand Celine

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Louis-Ferdinand Celine
Age: 67 †
Born: 1894
Born: May 27
Died: 1961
Died: July 1
Military Personnel
Novelist
Obstetrician
Physician Writer
Playwright
Writer
Olean
New York
Dr. Louis Ferdinand Auguste Destouches
Louis Ferdinand Destouches
Lui-Ferdinand Selin
L.-F. Selin
L.-F. Céline
Louis-Ferdinand Celine
L.-F. Celine
Louis Ferdinand Céline
Ready
Kiss
Caress
Sides
Golden
Pennies
Fall
Kissing
Sensual
Come
Master
Pigs
Always
Wings
Belly
Like
Masters
Counts
Grunts
Minutes
Falls
Caresses
Side
Desperate
Grunt

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Living, just by itself - what a dirge that is! Life is a classroom and Boredom's the usher, there all the time to spy on you.
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Philosophizing is simply one way of being afraid, a cowardly pretense that doesn't get you anywhere.
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Chin up, Ferdinand, I kept saying to myself, to keep up my courage. What with being chucked out of everywhere, you're sure to find whatever it is that scares all those bastards so. It must be at the end of the night, and that's why they're so dead set against going to the end of the night.
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I piss on you all from a considerable height.
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People avenge themselves for the favors done them.
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When you stop to examine the way in which our words are formed and uttered, our sentences are hard-put to it to survive the disaster of their slobbery origins.
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Since life consists of madness spiked with lies, the farther you are from each other the more lies you can put into it and the happier you'll be. That's only natural and normal. Truth is inedible.
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Poor people never, or hardly ever, ask for an explanation of all they have to put up with. They hate one another, and content themselves with that.
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Life is filigree work. What is written clearly is not worth much, it's the transparency that counts.
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Almost every desire a poor man has is a punishable offence.
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There's no such thing as intelligent vanity. It's an instinct. And you'll never find a man who is not first and foremost vain.
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A man should be resigned to knowing himself a little better each day if he hasn't got the guts to put an end to his sniveling once and for all.
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The poetry of heroism appeals irresistibly to those who don't go to a war, and even more to those whom the war is making enormously wealthy. It's always so.
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Lots of men are like that, their artistic leanings never go beyond a weakness for shapely thighs.
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Not much music left inside us for life to dance to. Our youth has gone to the ends of the earth to die in the silence of the truth. And where, I ask you, can a man escape to, when he hasn't enough madness left inside him? The truth is an endless death agony. The truth is death. You have to choose: death or lies. I've never been able to kill myself.
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Love is like liquor, the drunker and more impotent you are, the stronger and smarter you think yourself and the surer you are of your rights.
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I crawled back into myself all alone, just delighted to observe that I was even more miserable than before, because I had brought a new kind of distress and something that resembled true feeling into my solitude.
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There is no rest for the humble except in despising the great, whose only thought of the people is inspired by self-interest or sadism.
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So many vaginas, stomachs, cocks, snouts, and flies you don't know what to do with them ... shovelsfull! ... but hearts? ... very rare! in the last five hundred million years too many cocks and gastric tubes to count ... but hearts? ... on your fingers!.
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One can't relive one's life. Forgiveness is not what's difficult one's always too ready to forgive. And it does no good, that's obvious.
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