Quotes from James Broughton

Dance, vaudeville, drama, movies - as a child I loved everything that went on in a theater.

Amazement awaits us at every corner.

Everything that ever happened is still happening. Past, present and future keep happening in the eternity which is Here and Now.

For me, prose walks, poetry dances.

The quietest poetry can be an explosion of joy.

I tried to stir the imagination and enthusiasms of students to take risks, to do what they were most afraid of doing, to widen their horizons of action.

Today the U.S. is farther from being nourished by poetry than it was a hundred years ago, when books of poems were best-sellers.

My films are an extension of my poetry, using the white screen like the white page to be filled with images.

Poetry for me is as much a spiritual practice as sexual ecstasy is.

Some artists shrink from self-awareness, fearing that it will destroy their unique gifts and even their desire to create. The truth of the matter is quite opposite.

I'm happy to report that my inner child is still ageless.

In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.

The only limits are those of vision.

The only limits are, as always, those of vision.

It was as important to live poetically as to write poems.

If you don't fill your days with love, you are wasting your life.

Everything is Song. Everything is Silence. Since it all turns out to be illusion, perfectly being what it is, having nothing to do with good or bad, you are free to die laughing.

Trusting your individual uniqueness challenges you to lay yourself open.

I have been invaded by my own secrets and I must try to find out how to live with them.

Men fear joy too much, fear their instincts. Fear a surrender to their feelings. Fear loving themselves in others and loving others in themselves. Fear loving their true gods.

Have men always been terrified of their true nature? Is all history a record of their denials of themselves?

Behind me on the road through the wasteland lies the corpse of an imprisoned child.

What lurks in my shadow that the Sun does not reach?

They seemed to be locked behind built-in notions and no-nos, unaware of the mystery living through them or of the dance of illusion surrounding them.