Men, my dear, are very queer animals, a mixture of horse- nervousness, ass-stubbornness, and camel-malice--with an angel bobbing a...bout unexpectedly like the apple in the posset, and when they can do exactly as they please, they are very hard to drive. Oh, England. Sick in head and sick in heart, Sick in whole and every part, And yet sicker thou art still For thinking that thou art not ill.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;... Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its head o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife--LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Maybe I couldn't make it. Maybe I don't have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky arse, a sexy voice. Maybe ...I don't know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I'm sick of the masquerade. I'm sick of pretending eternal youth. I'm sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I'm sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I'm sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I'm sick of the Powder Room. I'm sick of pretending that some fatuous male's self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I'm sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I'm sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I have need of night people. I have need to see the bum dozing... off on scag, the women in labor pushing forth a pink head, lord I need to fly I am sick of rocks and sea water....LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm... That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Look at this poet William Carlos Williams: he is primitive and native, and his roots are in raw forest and violent places; he is w...ord-sick and place-crazy. He admires strength, but for what? Violence! This is the cult of the frontier mind.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I know what you're thinking. Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I've kinda lo...st track myself. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off--you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »