David Woodard Quotes

The Feraliminal Lycanthropizer is a low frequency thanato-auric wave generator. Known for its use by the Nazis and for its animalizing effects on human subjects tested within measurable vibratory proximity, the machine electrically generates two subsonic sinewaves—one 3hz, the other 9hz. Together, these two frequencies (one acting as carrier, the other as program) generate a lower third, .56hz. In addition to these sinewave generators, the machine contains four tape loops of unduplicable lengths, each containing textual material. Two of these loops operate below the threshold of decipherability (one forward, the other backward), and two operate far beyond the opposite threshold (also one forward, the other backward). The effect of the subsonic sinewaves on the sound of these human voice recordings is one of organic ululation.

LA Weekly (Jul. 26 - Aug. 1, 1996)

With the reopening of the school and church, and the building of an opera house, the spirit of these people would have a new light. I think it would please me to see a light at the end of the tunnel after 125 years.

It is inappropriate to have Tim listening to the triangle and then have a deejay come on and . . . go into Radiohead or something.

Initially I observed, in sweeping, panoramic vision, a perpetually metamorphosing Persian rug. A few minutes later these patterns segued into cinematic images from childhood—it was kind of like watching home movies.

Unless I am dashing off a snippy reply to a stalker (for instance), my correspondence tends to strive for the spirit of Nietzsche’s gangasrotogati.

The Master Great Cultural Figure cannot be communicated with, at all.

I think I can understand El Serruchito’s dismay. Imagine troubling yourself to attend some infant’s funeral, only to find dashed your modest poetic hopes.

The Italian Nerd does not exist (Nerd in the style of Gary Numan and Kraftwerk, of The Feelies and Devo). The Italian male does not feel / recognize the relevance of nerddom. This was felt at the Milan airport as a patrician black-clad gentleman moved the croissant into his mouth with gusto. The nerds, or what was left of them, were offered American coffee.

I immediately recognized the nearly finished score as incidental music destined by an unlikely congress of muses, including the pre-ghost of Jack Kevorkian, to accompany the death of Tim McVeigh, as his inexplicable circumstances resoundingly invoke the symbols, shapes and numbers found on these pages.

A bride burns her bridges, having fallen in love, and drowns in marriage.

The secret is the secret. Sincerity is the word.