Henry Miller Quotes

Disease is the tax which the soul pays for the body, as the tenant pays house-rent for the use of the house.

Life is an incurable disease.

To have a body is to suffer.

The human body is mostly blood and mystery and sadness.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

The trials of living and the pangs of disease make even the short span of life too long.

O tongue you are an endless treasure. O tongue, you are also an endless disease.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

How do you feel?” she asked, trying to fluff his pillow. “Other than terrible, I mean.” He moved his head slightly to the side. It seemed to be a sickly interpretation of a shrug. “Of course you’re feeling terrible,” she clarified, “but is there any change? More terrible? Less terrible?” He made no response. “The same amount of terrible?

The first and foremost reality is that suffering and death are not only enemies of life, but a means of reminding us of life's twin realities, love and hate.

Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners. We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it. . . . Someone just ripped off my eyelids.

And if my mind breaks up In all so many ways I know the meaning of The words, "I love you

Numbersign questionmark you" and "Asterisk exclamation point the world.

Because words were hills and valleys you traveled, so lovely sometimes that they hurt your eyes.

We are all frail-embodied creatures, who at times suffer through injustice, abuse, illness, pain and misfortune.

Hannah was about to burst with excitement, which would have been disgusting because she would have sprayed blood, guts and glitter in every direction.

I am only half there when I am ill, and so there is only half a man to suffer. To suffer in one's whole self is so great a violation, that it is not to be endured.

O great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that healest with blood The earth when it is sick, and curest the world O' the pleurisy of people.

And in bed, deep inside the building, are all the headaches that won't go away. The failed kidneys, the rashes, the ragged-edged moles, the lumps on the breast, the coughs that have turned nasty. In the Marie Curie Ward on the fourth floor are the kids with cancer. Their bodies secretly and slowly being consumed. And then there's the mortuary, where the dead lie in refrigerated drawers with name tags on their feet.

What a pity it is that there are so many words! Whenever one wants to say anything, three or four ways of saying it run into one's head together and one can't tell which to choose. It is as troublesome and puzzling as choosing a ribbon ... or a husband.

This long disease, my life.

I have a terrific headache.

The whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.