One must write poetry in such as way that if one threw the poem in a window, the pane would break.
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I am interested only in "nonsense"; only in that which makes no practical sense. I am interested in life only in its absurd manifestations.
I was most happy when pen and paper were taken from me and I was forbidden from doing anything. I had no anxiety about doing nothing by my own fault, my conscience was clear, and I was happy. This was when I was in prison.
There lived a redheaded man who had no eyes or ears. He didn’t have hair either, so he was called a redhead arbitrarily. He couldn’t talk because he had no mouth. He had no nose either. He didn’t even have arms or legs. He had no stomach, he had no back, he had no spine, and he had no innards at all. He didn’t have anything. So we don’t even know who we’re talking about. It’s better that we don’t talk about him any more.
Eleven times Jesus died on the cross, Eleven times falls down a body thrown upward, Eleven times also I abandon the logical flow of thought.
One must write poetry in such as way that if one threw the poem in a window, the pane would break.
Open this notebook every day and write down half a page at the very least. If you have nothing to write down, then at least, following Gogol’s advice, write down that today there’s nothing to write. Always write with attention and look on writing as a holiday.
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