“The first duty of a revolutionary is to get away with it. The second duty is to eat breakfast. I ain’t going.”

Fantasy is the only truth.

The work that the kids saw around them was so odious, so boring, so worthless that they came to regard WORK as the only dirty four-letter word in the English language.

The first duty of a revolutionist is to get away with it. The second duty is to eat breakfast. I ain’t going.

Become an internationalist and learn to respect all life. Make war on machines. And in particular the sterile machines of corporate death and the robots that guard them.

Sacred cows make the tastiest hamburger.

Democracy is not something you believe in or a place to hang your hat, but it’s something you do. You participate. If you stop doing it, democracy crumbles.

Nostalgia is a form of depression both for a society and an individual.

It’s too late. We can’t win, they’ve gotten too powerful.

Revolution is not something fixed in ideology, nor is it something fashioned to a particular decade. It is a perpetual process embedded in the human spirit.

It’s going to be a combination Scopes trial, revolution in the streets, Woodstock Festival and People’s Park, all rolled into one.

Never impose your language on people you wish to reach.

Random political acts produce random political results. Why waste even a rock?

Smoking dope and hanging up Che’s picture is no more a commitment than drinking milk and collecting postage stamps.

Free speech means the right to shout ‘theatre’ in a crowded fire.

A revolution in consciousness is an empty high without a revolution in the distribution of power. We are not interested in the greening of Amerika except for the grass that will cover its grave.

The essence of successful revolution, be it for an individual, a community of individuals, or a nation, depends on accepting that challenge.

You may as well say, ‘That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Once a woman has forgiven her man, she must not reheat his sins for breakfast.

It is a horrible fact that we can read in the daily paper, without interrupting our breakfast, numerical reckonings of death and destruction that ought to break our hearts or scare us out of our wits.

Cold pizza is a perfect breakfast, with lots of salt.

Our father the novelist; my husband the poet. He belongs to the ages – just don’t catch him at breakfast.

My father would often work all night and sleep during the day, so for us, dinner might be pancakes, and breakfast might be beef stroganoff.

I have savored to the full all the small, daily joys. The bright sunshine on the breakfast table; the smell of the air at dusk; the sound of the clock ticking; the light rains that start gently after midnight; the hour when the family come home.

I need someone to eat breakfast with and watch Adventure Time with!