Allen Ginsberg Quotes

When one does away with oneself one does the most estimable thing possible: one thereby almost deserves to live.

Life has become the ideology of its own absence.

The absurd is the essential concept and the first truth.

Ah, who will save me from existing? It's neither death nor life that I want.

Nothing matters to a man who says nothing matters.

In the end, the art of hunger can be described as an existential art. It is a way of looking death in the face, and by death I mean death as we live it today: without God, without hope of salvation. Death as the abrupt and absurd end of life

Meaning is man-created. And because you constantly look for meaning, you start to feel meaninglessness.

We who think we are about to die will laugh at anything.

Did I just kill someone?" "You can't kill a dead person," Callum said. "Makes no sense.

When you have solved all the mysteries of life you long for death, for it is but another mystery of life.

[F]or academic men to be happy, the universe would have to take shape. All of philosophy has no other goal: it is a matter of giving a frock coat to what is, a mathematical frock coat. On the other hand, affirming that the universe resembles nothing and is only formless amounts to saying that the universe is something like a spider or spit.

God is dead, God remains dead, and we have killed him.

If all I can say is I'm not in this swamp, I'm not in this swamp then there is not a rope in front of me and there is not an alligator behind me and there is not a girl sitting at the edge eating a hot dog and if I believe that, then dying would be the only answer because then Death couldn't come and say Peachy to me anymore and after all she has a brother who believes in hope.

The great question of philosophy remains: If life is meaningless, what can be done about alphabet soup?

When you don't believe in anything except not dying, you don't really believe in anything.

Philosophy - hopeless. Yet it gives me hope.

There is no solution, for there is no problem.

God is dead. Marx is dead. And I don't feel so well myself.

Yet in truth the big question Camus asked was never the Anglo-American liberal one: How can we make the world a little bit better tomorrow? It was the grander French one: Why not kill yourself tonight? That the answers come to much the same thing in the end-easy does it; tomorrow may be a bit better than today; and, after all, you have to have a little faith in people-doesn't diminish the glamour that clings to the man who turned the question over and look at it, elegantly, upside down.

I took a test in Existentialism. I left all the answers blank and got 100.

Everything is absurd.

With the certitude of a true believer, Vellya Paapen had assured the twins that there was no such thing in the world as a black cat. He said that there were only black cat chaped holes in the universe.

The point is there ain't no point.