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Already All Confusion. Things And Imaginings. As Of Always. Confusion Amounting To Nothing. Despite Precautions. If Only She Could Be Pure Figment. Unalloyed. This Old So Dying Woman. So Dead. In The Madhouse Of The Skull And Nowhere Else. Where No More Precautions To Be Taken. No Precautions Possible. Cooped Up There With The Rest. Hovel And Stones. The Lot. And The Eye. How Simple All Then. If Only All Could Be Pure Figment. Neither Be Nor Been Nor By Any Shift To Be. Gently Gently. On. Careful.

-Samuel Beckett

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Already All Confusion. Things

Samuel Beckett

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Already All Confusion. Things And Imaginings. As Of Always. Confusion Amounting To Nothing. Despite Precautions. If Only She Could Be Pure Figment. Unalloyed. This Old So Dying Woman. So Dead. In The Madhouse Of The Skull And Nowhere Else. Where No More Precautions To Be Taken. No Precautions Possible. Cooped Up There With The Rest. Hovel And Stones. The Lot. And The Eye. How Simple All Then. If Only All Could Be Pure Figment. Neither Be Nor Been Nor By Any Shift To Be. Gently Gently. On. Careful.

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We Wait. We Are Bored. (he Throws Up His Hand.) No, Don't Protest, We Are Bored To Death, There's No Denying It. Good. A Diversion Comes Along And What Do We Do? We Let It Go To Waste. Come, Let's Get To Work! (he Advances Towards The Heap, Stops In His Stride.) In An Instant All Will Vanish And We'll Be Alone More, In The Midst Of Nothingness!

My Work Is A Matter Of Fundamental Sounds (no Joke Intended) Made As Fully As Possible, And I Accept Responsibility For Nothing Else. If People Want To Have Headaches Among The Overtones, Let Them. And Provide Their Own Aspirin.

Don't Touch Me! Don't Question Me! Don't Speak To Me! Stay With Me!

Waiting For Godot

God Is Love. Yes Or No? No.

Absolute Virtue Is As Sure To Kill A Man As Absolute Vice Is, Let Alone The Dullness Of It And The Pomposities Of It.

Our Vulgar Perception Is Not Concerned With Other Than Vulgar Phenomena.

We Are Not Saints, But We Have Kept Our Appointment. How Many People Can Boast As Much?

Love Requited Is A Short Circuit.

To-morrow, When I Wake, Or Think I Do, What Shall I Say Of To-day?

Waiting For Godot

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

You Are Not Satisfied Unless Form Is So Strictly Divorced From Content That You Can Comprehend The One Without Almost Without Bothering To Read The Other.

Clear To Me At Last That The Dark I Have Always Struggled To Keep Under Is In Reality My Most

I Try. I Fail. I Try Again. I Fail Better.

Was I Asleep? Had I Slept?

Any Fool Can Turn A Blind Eye But Who Knows What The Ostrich Sees In The Sand.

If I Were In The Unenviable Position Of Having To Study My Work My Points Of Departure Would Be The "naught Is More Real ..." And The "ubi Nihil Vales ..." Both Already In Murphy And Neither Very Rational.

I Tried To Groan, Help! Help! But The Tone That Came Out Was That Of Polite Conversation.

Asking For Help

But I Know What Darkness Is, It Accumulates, Thickens, Then Suddenly Bursts And Drowns Everything.

What Is That Unforgettable Line?

Nothing Matters But The Writing. There Has Been Nothing Else Worthwhile... A Stain Upon The Silence.

I Say Me, Knowing All The While It's Not Me.

My Mistakes Are My Life.

I Had Little Talent For Happiness.

The New Light Above My Table Is A Great Improvement. With All This Darkness Around Me I Feel Less Alone. (pause.) In A Way. (pause.) I Love To Get Up And Move About In It, Then Back Here To... (hesitates) ...me. (pause.)

I Am Still Alive Then. That May Come In Useful.

When A Man In A Forest Thinks He Is Going Forward In A Straight Line, In Reality He Is Going In A Circle, I Did My Best To Go In A Circle, Hoping To Go In A Straight Line.

My Notes Have A Curious Tendency, As I Realize At Last, To Annihilate All They Purport To Record.

I Use The Words You Taught Me. If They Don't Mean Anything Any More, Teach Me Others. Or Let Me Be Silent.

I Am Such A Good Man, At Bottom, Such A Good Man, How Is It That Nobody Ever Noticed It?

The Only Thing You Must Never Speak Of Is Your Happiness.

I Speak For An Art ... Weary Of Its Puny Exploits, Weary Of Pretending To Be Able, Of Being Able, Of Doing A Little Better The Same Old Thing, Of Going A Little Further Along A Dreary Road.

I Always Thought Old Age Would Be A Writer’s Best Chance. Whenever I Read The Late Work Of Goethe Or W. B. Yeats I Had The Impertinence To Identify With It. Now, My Memory’s Gone, All The Old Fluency’s Disappeared. I Don’t Write A Single Sentence Without Saying To Myself, ‘it’s A Lie!’ So I Know I Was Right. It’s The Best Chance I’ve Ever Had.

Make Sense Who May. I Switch Off.

The Essential Doesn't Change.

Art Has Always Been This--pure Interrogation, Rhetorical Question Less The Rhetoric--whatever Else It May Have Been Obliged By Social Reality To Appear.

The Time-state Of Attainment Eliminates So Accurately The Time-state Of Aspiration, That The Actual Seems The Inevitable, And, All Conscious Intellectual Effort To Reconstitute The Invisible And Unthinkable As A Reality Being Fruitless, We Are Incapable Of Appreciating Our Joy By Comparing It With Our Sorrow.

Personally Of Course I Regret Everything. Not A Word, Not A Deed, Not A Thought, Not A Need, Not A Grief, Not A Joy, Not A Girl, Not A Boy, Not A Doubt, Not A Trust, Not A Scorn, Not A Lust, Not A Hope, Not A Fear, Not A Smile, Not A Tear, Not A Name, Not A Face, No Time, No Place...that I Do Not Regret, Exceedingly. An Ordure, From Beginning To End.

I Still Smile It's Not Worth The Trouble Any More For A Long Time Now It's Not Been Worth The Trouble The Tongue Spring Goes Into The Mud I Stay Like This Not Thirsty Any More The Tongue Goes Back Into The Mouth It Closes It Has To Make A Straight Line Now It's Done I've Made The Image.

I Gave Up Before Birth.

I Love Order. It's My Dream. A World Where All Would Be Silent And Still, And Each Thing In Its Last Place, Under The Last Dust.

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question.

Waiting For Godot

There Is This To Be Said For Dachsunds Of Such Length And Lowness As Nelly, That It Makes Very Little Difference To Their Appearance Whether They Stand, Sit Or Lie.

Nothing Is Funnier Than Unhappiness.

What I Assert, Deny, Question, In The Present, I Still Can. But Mostly I Shall Use The Various Tenses Of The Past. For Mostly I Do Not Know, It Is Perhaps No Longer So, It Is Too Soon To Know, I Simply Do Not Know, Perhaps Shall Never Know.

What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny? I Could Tell You More About Radishes.

There Is No Use Indicting Words, They Are No Shoddier Than What They Peddle.

Better Hope Deferred Than None.

All Mankind Is Us, Whether We Like It Or Not.

Waiting For Godot

Women Are All The Bloody Sameyou Can't Love For Five Minutes Without Wanting It Abolished In Brats And House Bloody Wifery.

Be Again, Be Again. (pause.) All That Old Misery. (pause.) Once Wasn't Enough For You.

To Think, When One Is No Longer Young, When One Is Not Yet Old, That One Is No Longer Young, That One Is Not Yet Old, That Is Perhaps Something.

The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.

Birth Was The Death Of Him.

The Only Sin Is The Sin Of Being Born.

Every Word Is Like An Unnecessary Stain On Silence And Nothingness.

Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear

Estragon: Suppose We Repented. Vladimir: Repented What? Estragon: Oh...(he Reflects.) We Wouldn’t Have To Go Into The Details. Vladimir: Our Being Born?

James Joyce Was A Synthesizer, Trying To Bring In As Much As He Could. I Am An Analyzer, Trying To Leave Out As Much As I Can.

How Time Flies When One Has Fun!

Personally I Have No Bone To Pick With Graveyards, I Take The Air There Willingly, Perhaps More Willingly Than Elsewhere, When Take The Air I Must.

I Cannot Explain My Plays. Each Must Find Out For Himself What Is Meant

What Do We Do Now, Now That We Are Happy?

Habit Is A Compromise Effected Between The Individual And His Environment, Or Between The Individual And His Own Organic Eccentricities, The Guarantee Of A Dull Inviolability, The Lightning-conductor Of His Existence.

Decidedly It Will Never Have Been Given To Me To Finish Anything, Except Perhaps Breathing. One Must Not Be Greedy.

And All These Questions I Ask Myself. It Is Not In A Spirit Of Curiosity. I Cannot Be Silent. About Myself I Need Know Nothing. Here All Is Clear. No, All Is Not Clear. But The Discourse Must Go On. So One Invents Obscurities. Rhetoric.

Enough Of Acting The Infant Who Has Been Told So Often How He Was Found Under A Cabbage That In The End He Remembers The Exact Spot In The Garden And The Kind Of Life He Led There Before Joining The Family Circle.

You Cried For Night - It Falls. Now Cry In Darkness.

It's So Nice To Know Where You're Going, In The Early Stages. It Almost Rids You Of The Wish To Go There.

Enough To Know No Knowing.

When The Object Is Perceived As Particular And Unique And Not Merely The Member Of A Family, When It Appears Independent Of Any General Notion And Detached From The Sanity Of A Cause, Isolated And Inexplicable In The Light Of Ignorance, Then And Only Then May It Be A Source Of Enchantment.

I Am Interested In The Shape Of Ideas Even If I Do Not Believe In Them. There Is A Wonderful Sentence In Augustine . . . "do Not Despair: One Of The Thieves Was Saved; Do Not Presume: One Of The Thieves Was Damned." That Sentence Had A Wonderful Shape. It Is The Shape That Matters.

But At This Place, At This Moment Of Time, All Mankind Is Us, Whether We Like It Or Not. Let Us Make The Most Of It, Before It Is Too Late!

Waiting For Godot

How All Becomes Clear And Simple When One Opens An Eye On The Within, Having Of Course Previously Exposed It To The Without, In Order To Benefit By The Contrast.

Already All Confusion. Things And Imaginings. As Of Always. Confusion Amounting To Nothing. Despite Precautions. If Only She Could Be Pure Figment. Unalloyed. This Old So Dying Woman. So Dead. In The Madhouse Of The Skull And Nowhere Else. Where No More Precautions To Be Taken. No Precautions Possible. Cooped Up There With The Rest. Hovel And Stones. The Lot. And The Eye. How Simple All Then. If Only All Could Be Pure Figment. Neither Be Nor Been Nor By Any Shift To Be. Gently Gently. On. Careful.

For To Know Nothing Is Nothing, Not To Want To Know Anything Likewise, But To Be Beyond Knowing Anything, To Know You Are Beyond Knowing Anything, That Is When Peace Enters In, To The Soul Of The Incurious Seeker.

There's Never An End For The Sea.

Have You Not Done Tormenting Me With Your Accursed Time! It's Abominable! When! When! One Day, Is That Not Enough For You, One Day He Went Dumb, One Day I Went Blind, One Day We'll Go Deaf, One Day We Were Born, One Day We Shall Die, The Same Day, The Same Second, Is That Not Enough For You? They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

The Dust Will Not Settle In Our Time. And When It Does Some Great Roaring Machine Will Come And Whirl It All Skyhigh Again.

All I Say Cancels Out, I’ll Have Said Nothing.

Mysterious Affair, Electricity.

What Kind Of Country Is This Where A Woman Can't Weep Her Heart Out On The Highways And Byways Without Being Tormented By Retired Bill-brokers!

Yesterday Is Not A Milestone That Has Been Passed, But A Daystone On The Beaten Track Of The Years, And Irremediably Part Of Us, Within Us, Heavy And Dangerous. We Are Not Merely More Weary Because Of Yesterday, We Are Other, No Longer What We Were Before The Calamity Of Yesterday.

It Was The Only Way To Progress, To Stop.

The Human Eyelid Is Not Teartight (happily For The Human Eye).

We All Are Born Mad. Some Remain So.

Waiting For Godot

How Can One Better Magnify The Almighty Than By Sniggering With Him At His Little Jokes, Particularly The Poorer Ones?

Deplorable Mania, When Something Happens, To Inquire What.

I Could Not Have Gone Through The Awful Wretched Mess Of Life Without Having Left A Stain Upon The Silence.

Poetry Is Essentially The Antithesis Of Metaphysics: Metaphysics Purge The Mind Of The Senses And Cultivate The Disembodiment Of The Spiritual; Poetry Is All Passionate And Feeling And Animates The Inanimate; Metaphysics Are Most Perfect When Concerned With Universals; Poetry, When Most Concerned With Particulars.

All That Is Active, All That Is Enveloped In Time And Space, Is Endowed With What Might Be Described As An Abstract, Ideal And Absolute Impermeability.

Habit Is A Compromise Effected Between An Individual And His Environment.

Do They [the Publishers Of Murphy] Not Understand That If The Book Is Slightly Obscure It Is Because It Is A Compression And Thatto Compress It Further Can Only Make It More Obscure?

The Reality Of The Individualis An Incoherent Reality And Must Be Expressed Incoherently.

...and A Dream Away In Space With Neither Her Nor There Where All The Footsteps Ever Fell Can Never Fare Nearer To Anywhere Nor From Anywhere Further Away. Nor For In The End Again By Degrees Or As Though Switched On Dark Falls There Again That Certain Dark That Alone Certain Ashes Can. Through It Who Knows Yet Another End Beneath A Cloudless Sky Of A Last End If Ever There Had To Be Another Absolutely Had To Be.

We Should Have Thought Of It When The World Was Young, In The Nineties.

How Long Have I Been Here, What A Question, I've Often Wondered. And Often I Could Answer, An Hour, A Month, A Year, A Century, Depending On What I Meant By Here, And Me, And Being, And There I Never Went Looking For Extravagant Meanings, There I Never Much Varied, Only The Here Would Sometimes Seem To Vary.

My Characters Have Nothing. I'm Working With Impotence, Ignorance... That Whole Zone Of Being That Has Always Been Set Aside By Artists As Something Unusable - Something By Definition Incompatible With Art.

Do We Mean Love, When We Say Love?

Personally I Have No Bone To Pick With Graveyards.

Lick Your Neighbor As Yourself!

To Restore Silence Is The Role Of Objects.

The Whisky Bears A Grudge Against The Decanter.

Where Am I, I Don't Know, I'll Never Know, In The Silence, In The Silence You Don't Know, You Must Go On, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On.

To What Will Love Not Stoop!

Sometimes I Wonder If I'm In My Right Mind. Then It Passes Off And I'm As Intelligent As Ever.

An Imaginative Adventure Does Not Enjoy The Same Corsets As Reportage.

Let Me Go To Hell, That's All I Ask, And Go On Cursing Them There, And Them Look Down And Hear Me, That Might Take Some Of The Shine Off Their Bliss.

I Can't Go On. I'll Go On.

But He Had Hardly Felt The Absurdity Of Those Things, On The One Hand, And The Necessity Of Those Others, On The Other, (for It Is Rare That The Feeling Of Absurdity Is Not Followed By The Feeling Of Necessity), When He Felt The Absurdity Of Those Things Of Which He Had Just Felt The Necessity (for It Is Rare That The Feeling Of Necessity Is Not Followed By The Feeling Of Absurdity.)

Dance First. Think Later. It's The Natural Order.

Dying For Dark — And The Darker The Worse. Strange.

The End Of A Life Is Always Vivifying.

In The Name Of Bacon Will You Chicken Me Up That Egg. Shall I Swallow Cave-phantoms?

I Have Always Been Amazed At My Contemporaries’ Lack Of Finesse, I Whose Soul Writhed From Morning To Night, In The Mere Quest Of Itself.

The End Is In The Beginning And Yet You Go On.

All This Business Of A Labour To Accomplish, Before I Can End, Of Words To Say, A Truth To Recover, In Order To Say It, Before I Can End, Of An Imposed Task, Once Known, Long Neglected, Finally Forgotten, To Perform, Before I Can Be Done With Speaking, Done With Listening, I Invented It All, In The Hope It Would Console Me, Help Me To Go On, Allow Me To Think Of Myself As Somewhere On A Road, Moving, Between A Beginning And An End, Gaining Ground, Losing Ground, Getting Lost, But Somehow In The Long Run Making Headway.

Not To Want To Say, Not To Know What You Want To Say, Not To Be Able To Say What You Think You Want To Say, And Never To Stop Saying, Or Hardly Ever, That Is The Thing To Keep In Mind, Even In The Heat Of Composition.

As It Is With The Love Of The Body, So With The Friendship Of The Mind, The Full Is Only Reached By Admittance To The Most Retired Places.

Yes, I Dont Know Why, But I Have Never Been Disappointed, And I Often Was In The Early Days, Without Feeling At The Same Time, Or A Moment Later, An Undeniable Relief.

It's Impossible I Should Have A Mind And I Have One

And What I Have, What I Am, Is Enough, Was Always Enough For Me, And As Far As My Dear Little Sweet Little Future Is Concerned I Have No Qualms, I Have A Good Time Coming.

I Have My Faults, But Changing My Tune Is Not One Of Them.

There Is At Least This To Be Said For Mind, That It Can Dispel Mind.

You Would Do Better, At Least No Worse, To Obliterate Texts Than To Blacken Margins, To Fill In The Holes Of Words Till All Is Blank And Flat And The Whole Ghastly Business Looks Like What It Is, Senseless, Speechless, Issueless Misery.

There Is Man In His Entirety, Blaming His Shoe When His Foot Is Guilty.

The Time Is Perhaps Not Altogether Too Green For The Vile Suggestion That Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear, And More Than The Light Of Day (or Night) Makes The Subsolar, -lunar, And -stellar Excrement. Art Is The Sun, Moon, And Stars Of The Mind, The Whole Mind.

Silence, Yes, But What Silence! For It Is All Very Fine To Keep Silence, But One Has Also To Consider The Kind Of Silence One Keeps.

Watt Had Watched People Smile And Thought He Understood How It Was Done.

Hold The Old Holding Hand. Hold And Be Held. Plod On And Never Recede. Slowly With Never A Pause Plod On And Never Recede.

I Open The Door Of The Cell And Go. I Am So Bowed I Only See My Feet, If I Open My Eyes, And Between My Legs A Little Trail Of Black Dust. I Say To Myself That The Earth Is Extinguished, Though I Never Saw It Lit.

Friendship, According To Proust, Is The Negation Of That Irremediable Solitude To Which Every Human Being Is Condemned.

To Find A Form That Accommodates The Shape Of The Mess, That Is The Task Of The Artist Now.

The Situation Is That Of Him Who Is Helpless, Cannot Act, In The Event Cannot Paint, Since He Is Obliged To Paint. The Act Is Of Him Who, Helpless, Unable To Act, Acts, In The Event Paints, Since He Is Obliged To Paint.

Estragon: I Can't Go On Like This. Vladimir: That's What You Think.

All Life Long, The Same Questions, The Same Answers.

The Memory Came Faint And Cold Of The Story I Might Have Told, A Story In The Likeness Of My Life, I Mean Without The Courage To End Or The Strength To Go On.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

I've Tried Not To Exaggerate The Glory Of Athletes. I'd Rather, If I Could, Preserve A Sense Of Proportion, To Write About Them Asexcellent Ballplayers, First-rate Players. But I'm Sure I Have Contributed To False Values--as Stanley Woodward Said, "godding Up Those Ballplayers." The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.

It Is Useless Not To Seek, Not To Want, For When You Cease To Seek You Start To Find, And When You Cease To Want, Then Life Begins To Ram Her Fish And Chips Down Your Gullet Until You Puke, And Then The Puke Down Your Gullet Until You Puke The Puke, And Then The Puked Puke Until You Begin To Like It.

That's What Hell Must Be Like, Small Chat To The Babbling Of Lethe About The Good Old Days When We Wished We Were Dead.

Yes, There Is No Denying It, Any Longer, It Is Not You Who Are Dead, But All The Others. So You Get Up And Go To Your Mother, Who Thinks She Is Alive. That's My Impression. But Now I Shall Have To Get Myself Out Of This Ditch. How Joyfully I Would Vanish Here, Sinking Deeper And Deeper Under The Rains.

Do You Always Believe In The Life To Come? Mine Was Always That.

Hamm: We're Not Beginning To... To... Mean Something? Clov: Mean Something! You And I, Mean Something! (brief Laugh.) Ah That's A Good One!

Go On Failing. Go On. Only Next Time, Try To Fail Better.

If I Was Dead, I Wouldn't Know I Was Dead. That's The Only Thing I Have Against Death. I Want To Enjoy My Death.

James Joyce: His Writing Is Not About Something. It Is The Thing Itself.

Abode Where Lost Bodies Roam Each Searching For Its Lost One.

The Confusion Is Not My Invention. We Cannot Listen To A Conversation For Five Minutes Without Being Aware Of The Confusion. It Is All Around Us And Our Only Chance Now Is To Let It In. The Only Chance Of Renovation Is To Open Our Eyes And See The Mess. It Is Not A Mess You Can Make Sense Of.

That's The Mistake I Made, One Of The Mistakes, To Have Wanted A Story For Myself, Whereas Life Alone Is Enough.

It Is Suicide To Be Abroad. But What It Is To Be At Home, ... What It Is To Be At Home? A Lingering Dissolution.

Yes, Light, There Is No Other Word For It.

I Marshalled The Words And Opened My Mouth, Thinking I Would Hear Them. But All I Heard Was A Kind Of Rattle, Unintelligible Even To Me Who Knew What Was Intended.

The Tuesday Scowls, The Wednesday Growls, The Thursday Curses, The Friday Howls, The Saturday Snores, The Sunday Yawns, The Monday Morns, The Monday Morns. The Whacks, The Moans, The Cracks, The Groans, The Welts, The Squeaks, The Belts, The Shrieks, The Pricks, The Prayers, The Kicks, The Tears, The Skelps, And The Yelps.

How Hideous Is The Semicolon.

To Every Man His Little Cross. Till He Dies. And Is Forgotten.

Waiting For Godot

To Be An Artist Is To Fail, As No Other Dare Fail, That Failure Is His World And The Shrink From Desertion, Art And Craft, Good Housekeeping, Living.

Words And Images Run Riot In My Head, Pursuing, Flying, Clashing, Merging, Endlessly. But Beyond This Tumult There Is A Great Calm, And A Great Indifference, Never Really To Be Troubled By Anything Again.

If By Godot I Had Meant God I Would Have Said God, And Not Godot.

I Did Not Want To Write, But I Had To Resign Myself To It In The End.

I Hope I Am Not Too Old To Take It Up Seriously, Nor Too Stupid About Machines To Qualify As A Commercial Pilot. I Do Not Feel Like Spending The Rest Of My Life Writing Books That No One Will Read. It Is Not As Though I Wanted To Write Them.

What Is This Love That More Than All The Cursed Deadly Or Any Other Of Its Great Movers So Moves The Soul And Soul What Is This Soul That More Than By Any Of Its Great Movers Is By Love So Moved?

Light Black. From Pole To Pole.

Where You Have Nothing, There You Should Want Nothing.

The Blind Have No Notion Of Time. The Things Of Time Are Hidden From Them Too.

The Fact Would Seem To Be, If In My Situation One May Speak Of Facts, Not Only That I Shall Have To Speak Of Things Of Which I Cannot Speak, But Also, Which Is Even More Interesting, But Also That I, Which Is If Possible Even More Interesting, That I Shall Have To, I Forget, No Matter. And At The Same Time I Am Obliged To Speak. I Shall Never Be Silent. Never.

That Desert Of Loneliness And Recrimination That Men Call Love.

Nothing Happens. Nobody Comes, Nobody Goes. It's Awful.

Waiting For Godot

Fail, Fail Again, Fail Better.

The Search For The Means To Put An End To Things, An End To Speech, Is What Enables The Discourse To Continue.

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question. And We Are Blessed In This, That We Happen To Know The Answer. Yes, In The Immense Confusion One Thing Alone Is Clear. We Are Waiting For Godot To Come

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

I Don't Know Why I Told This Story. I Could Just As Well Have Told Another. Perhaps Some Other Time I'll Be Able To Tell Another. Living Souls, You Will See How Alike They Are.

It Is Right That He Too Should Have His Little Chronicle, His Memories, His Reason, And Be Able To Recognize The Good In The Bad, The Bad In The Worst, And So Grow Gently Old Down All The Unchanging Days, And Die One Day Like Any Other Day, Only Shorter.

Habit Is The Ballast That Chains The Dog To His Vomit.

For In Me There Have Always Been Two Fools, Among Others, One Asking Nothing Better Than To Stay Where He Is And The Other Imagining That Life Might Be Slightly Less Horrible A Little Further On.

Poets Are The Sense, Philosophers The Intelligence Of Humanity.

We Always Find Something, Eh Didi, To Let Us Think We Exist?

All Poetry, As Discriminated From The Various Paradigms Of Prosody, Is Prayer.

Name, No, Nothing Is Nameable, Tell, No, Nothing Can Be Told, What Then, I Don't Know, I Shouldn't Have Begun.

What Goes By The Name Of Love Is Banishment, With Now And Then A Postcard From The Homeland, Such Is My Considered Opinion, This Evening.

But What Matter Whether I Was Born Or Not, Have Lived Or Not, Am Dead Or Merely Dying. I Shall Go On Doing As I Have Always Done, Not Knowing What It Is I Do, Nor Who I Am, Nor Where I Am, Nor If I Am.

I Pause To Record That I Feel In Extraordinary Form. Delirium Perhaps.

No, I Regret Nothing, All I Regret Is Having Been Born, Dying Is Such A Long Tiresome Business I Always Found.

All I Know Is What The Words Know, And Dead Things, And That Makes A Handsome Little Sum, With A Beginning And A Middle And An End, As In The Well-built Phrase And The Long Sonata Of The Dead.

Two In Distressmake Sorrow Less.

Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.' You Won't Believe What You Can Accomplish By Attempting The Impossible With The Courage To Repeatedly Fail Better.

Estragon: We Always Find Something, Eh Didi, To Give Us The Impression We Exist? Vladimir: Yes, Yes, We're Magicians.

Waiting For Godot

Tears And Laughter, They Are So Much Gaelic To Me.

Let's Go." "we Can't." "why Not?" "we're Waiting For Godot.

Waiting For Godot

But It Seems Impossible To Speak And Yet Say Nothing, You Think You Have Succeeded, But You Always Overlook Something.

We Have Time To Grow Old. The Air Is Full Of Our Cries. But Habit Is A Great Deadener.

Waiting For Godot

Just Under The Surface I Shall Be, All Together At First, Then Separate And Drift, Through All The Earth And Perhaps In The End Through A Cliff Into The Sea, Something Of Me. A Ton Of Worms In An Acre, That Is A Wonderful Thought, A Ton Of Worms, I Believe It.

The Tears Stream Down My Cheeks From My Unblinking Eyes. What Makes Me Weep So? There Is Nothing Saddening Here. Perhaps It Is Liquefied Brain.

The Day You Die Is Just Like Any Other, Only Shorter.

We Spend Our Life, It's Ours, Trying To Bring Together In The Same Instant A Ray Of Sunshine And A Free Bench

Estragon: What About Hanging Ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd Give Us An Erection.

What Was God Doing With Himself Before The Creation?

Spend The Years Of Learning Squandering Courage For The Years Of Wandering Through A World Politely Turning From The Loutishness Of Learning.

I Have Nothing But Wastes And Wilds Of Self-translation Before Me For Many Miserable Months To Come.

We Lose Our Hair, Our Teeth! Our Bloom, Our Ideals.

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