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The bees in my stomach are dead and getting used to it.

Richard Brautigan

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Richard Brautigan
Age: 49 †
Born: 1935
Born: January 30
Died: 1984
Died: October 25
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Tacoma
Washington
Richard Gary Brautigan
Getting
Used
Bees
Stomach
Dead

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It's pretty hard to have faith when everybody is trying to lock you up.
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You've got some 'Star-Spangled' nails in your coffin, kid. That's what they've done for you, son.
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Burn all the maps to your body. I'm not here of my own choosing.
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God-forsaken is beautiful, too.
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A friend came over to the house a few days ago and read one of my poems. He came back today and asked to read the same poem over again. After he finished reading it, he said, It makes me want to write poetry.
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I daydream about a high school where everybody plays the harmonica: the students, the teachers, the principal, the janitor and the cook in the cafeteria.
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If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer. That is my name.
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Karma Repair Kit Items 1-4. 1.Get enough food to eat, and eat it. 2.Find a place to sleep where it is quiet, and sleep there. 3.Reduce intellectual and emotional noise until you arrive at the silence of yourself, and listen to it. 4.
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I had a good-talking candle last night in my bedroom. I was very tired but I wanted somebody to be with me, so I lit a candle and listened to its comfortable voice of light until I was asleep.
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I feel as if I am an ad for the sale of a haunted house: 18 rooms $37,000 I’m yours ghosts and all.
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...what makes you older is when your bones, muscles and blood wear out, when the heart sinks into oblivion and all the houses you ever lived in are gone and people are not really certain that your civilization ever existed.
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There are spiders living comfortably in my house while the wind howls outside. They aren't bothering anybody. If I were a fly, I'd have second thoughts, but I'm not, so I don't.
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For fear you will be alone you do so many things that aren't you at all.
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He learned about life at sixteen, first from Dostoevsky and then from the whores of New Orleans.
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I'll think about things for thirty or forty years before I'll write it.
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We looked like a parade barely moving toward YOU MIGHT GET LOST.
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I don't know these people and they aren't my flowers.
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We could see the children's toys here and there, and we saw a game that the children had made themselves out of dirt, deer antlers and abalone shells, but the game was so strange that only children could tell what it was. Perhaps it wasn't a game at all, only the grave of a game.
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In a Cafe I watched a man in a cafe fold a slice of bread as if he were folding a birth certificate or looking at the photograph of a dead lover.
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We walked back to iDEATH, holding hands. Hands are very nice things, especially after they have travelled back from making love.
Richard Brautigan