Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
The human race is a race of cowards; and I am not only marching in that procession but carrying a banner.
Beasts bounding through time. Van Gogh writing his brother for paints Hemingway testing his shotgun Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine the impossibility of being human Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town the impossibility of being human Burroughs killing his wife with a gun Mailer stabbing his the impossibility of being human Maupassant going mad in a rowboat Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller the impossibility Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops the impossibility Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench Chatterton drinking rat poison Shakespeare a plagiarist Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness the impossibility the impossibility Nietzsche gone totally mad the impossibility of being human all too human this breathing in and out out and in these punks these cowards these champions these mad dogs of glory moving this little bit of light toward us impossibly
Cowards die many times before their actual deaths.
Heroes are not known by the loftiness of their carriage; the greatest braggarts are generally the merest cowards.
Fatigue makes cowards of us all.
Triangle chokes are the refuge for cowards. I would never stoop to that level of locking my legs around a man and squeezing.