It is by metaphor that language grows.

Subjective conscious mind is an analog of what is called the real world. It is built up with a vocabulary or lexical field whose terms are all metaphors or analogs of behavior in the physical world.

Poetry begins as the divine speech of the bicameral mind. Then, as the bicameral mind breaks down, there remain prophets.

Indeed, it is sometimes almost as if the problem had to be forgotten to be solved.

We can only know in the nervous system what we have known in behavior first.

Consciousness is always open to many possibilities because it involves play. It is always an adventure.

The mind is still haunted with its old unconscious ways; it broods on lost authorities; and the yearning, the deep and hollowing yearning for divine volition and service is with us still.

The importance of writing in the breakdown of the bicameral voices is tremendously important. What had to be spoken is now silent and carved upon a stone to be taken in visually.

I shall state my thesis plain. The first poets were gods. Poetry began with the bicameral mind.

There is no such thing as a complete consciousness.

The king dead is a living god.

There is no rest for the humble except in despising the great, whose only thought of the people is inspired by self-interest or sadism.

To find yourself: be yourself, trust yourself, and love yourself.

The Press, which is mostly controlled by vested interests, has an excessive influence on public opinion.

The craft of questions, the craft of stories, the craft of the hands - all these are the making of something, and that something is soul. Anytime we feed soul, it guarantees increase.

Before you tell me what you teach and preach, show me how you live and give.

Life is full of many minor annoyances, and few matters of real consequence.

I nod like I’m listening,like we’re communicating, and she never knows the difference.

Recovering in a Calcutta, India hospital. I think I'm more difficult than critical.

Sometimes you just want to write a party song.

His teeth sang in their individual sockets like tuning forks, each one pitch-perfect and clear as ethanol.