Love is only a recognition of our own guilt and imperfection, and a supplication for forgiveness to the perfect beloved. This is why we love those who are more beautiful than ourselves, why we fear them, and why we must be unhappy lovers. When we make ourselves high priests of art we deceive ourselves again, art is like a genie. It is more powerful than ourselves, but only by virtue of ourselves does it exist and create
Allen Ginsberg to Jack Kerouac, September 1945
Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.
Frank O’Hara, Meditations in an Emergency
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However deep one’s knowledge of abstruse philosophy, it is like a piece of hair flying in the vastness of space; however important one’s experience of things worldly, it is like a drop of water thrown into an unfathomable abyss.