Tropic of Cancer (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Henry Miller

There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away.

Twilight hour. Indian blue, water of glass, trees glistening and liquescent.

There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled. They go in even without revolver or whip. Fear makes them fearless

Harry James Potter

What has all this to do with you, Moldorf? The word in your mouth is anarchy. Say it, Moldorf, I am waiting for it.

We stand on five minutes and devour centuries. You are the sieve through which my anarchy strains, resolves itself into words. Behind the word is chaos. Each word a stripe, a bar, but there are not and never will be enough bars to make the mesh.

Coriolanus snow & lucy gray!

Things are always happening. It seems wherever I go there is drama. People are like lice – they get under your skin and bury themselves there.

I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want everyone to scratch himself to death.

St. Jude, maybe I've always been more comfortable in chaos (St. Jude, Florence + the Machine)

Or wandering along the Seine at night, wandering and wandering, and going mad with the beauty of it,