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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.

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
Students
Janitor
Teacher
Cafeteria
Everybody
Daydreaming
High
Principal
School
Cook
Play
Cooks
Harmonicas
Teachers
Harmonica
Plays
Daydream

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Once upon a time there was a dwarf knight who only had fifty words to live in and they were so fleeting that he only had time to put on a suit of armor and ride swiftly on a black horse into a very well-lit woods where he vanished forever.
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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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Elizabeth's voice had a door in it. When you opened that door you found another door, and that door opened yet another door. All the doors were nice and led out of her.
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I believe I saw a woodcock. He had a long bill like putting a fire hydrant into a pencil sharpener, then pasting it onto a bird and letting the bird fly away in front of me with this thing on its face for no other purpose than to amaze me.
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I'll think about things for thirty or forty years before I'll write it.
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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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We walked back to iDEATH, holding hands. Hands are very nice things, especially after they have travelled back from making love.
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Excuse me, I said. I thought you were a trout stream. I'm not, she said.
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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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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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The time is right to mix sentences with dirt and the sun with punctuation and rain with verbs.
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Burn all the maps to your body. I'm not here of my own choosing.
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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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If you get hung up on everybody else's hang-ups, then the whole world's going to be nothing more than one huge gallows.
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There are not too many fables about man's misuse of sunflower seeds.
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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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Reduce intellectual and emotional noise until you arrive at the silence of yourself and listen to it.
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Probably the closest things to perfection are the huge absolutely empty holes that astronomers have recently discovered in space. If there's nothing there, how can anything go wrong?
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God-forsaken is beautiful, too.
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