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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.

-Samuel Beckett

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It Is Useless Not

Samuel Beckett

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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.

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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.

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.

Do We Mean Love, When We Say Love?

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.

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.

Yes, There Were Times When I Forgot Not Only Who I Was But That I Was, Forgot To Be.

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.

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

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!

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.

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

Waiting For Godot

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

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.

I Had Little Talent For Happiness.

Words Are All We Have.

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.

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

Memories Are Killing. So You Must Not Think Of Certain Things, Of Those That Are Dear To You, Or Rather You Must Think Of Them, For If You Don’t There Is The Danger Of Finding Them, In Your Mind, Little By Little.

It's A Rare Thing Not To Have Been Bonny-- Once.

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

She Felt, As She Felt So Often With Murphy, Spattered With Words That Went Dead As Soon As They Sounded; Each Word Obliterated, Before It Had Time To Make Sense, By The Word That Came Next; So That In The End She Did Not Know What Had Been Said. It Was Like Difficult Music Heard For The First Time.

Success And Failure On The Public Level Never Mattered Much To Me, In Fact I Feel More At Home With The Latter, Having Breathed Deep Of Its Vivifying Air All My Writing Life Up To The Last Couple Of Years.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Perhaps My Best Years Are Gone. When There Was A Chance Of Happiness. But I Wouldn't Want Them Back. Not With The Fire In Me Now. No, I Wouldn't Want Them Back.

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.

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.

In Reality We Are One And All From The Unthinkable First To The No Less Unthinkable Last Glued Together In A Vast Imbrication Of Flesh Without Breach Or Fissure

Better Hope Deferred Than None.

Personally I Have No Bone To Pick With Graveyards.

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

The Essential Doesn't Change.

People Are Bloody Ignorant Apes.

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

Waiting For Godot

If You Don't Know Where You Are Currently Standing, You're Dead.

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.

...you Must Say Words, As Long As There Are Any, Until They Find Me, Until They Say Me, Strange Pain, Strange Sin, You Must Go On, Perhaps It's Done Already, Perhaps They Have Said Me Already, Perhaps They Have Carried Me To The Threshold Of My Story, Before The Door That Opens On My Story, That Would Surprise Me, If It Opens, It Will Be I, It Will Be The Silence, Where I Am, I Don't Know, I'll Never Know, In The Silence You Don't Know, You Must Go On, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On

All Has Not Been Said And Never Will Be.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

So All Things Limp Together For The Only Possible.

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

It Is Better To Adopt The Simplest Explanation, Even If It Is Not Simple, Even If It Does Not Explain Very Much. A Bright Light Is Not Necessary, A Taper Is All One Needs To Live In Strangeness, If It Faithfully Burns.

He Who Has Waited Long Enough, Will Wait Forever. And There Comes The Hour When Nothing More Can Happen And Nobody More Can Come And All Is Ended But The Waiting That Knows Itself In Vain.

My Dear Tom, Delighted To Get Your Letter. Do Write Again. This Life Is Terrible And I Don't Understand How It Can Be Endured.

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.

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

That Desert Of Loneliness And Recrimination That Men Call Love.

Pozzo: I Am Blind. (silence.) Estragon: Perhaps He Can See Into The Future.

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.

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.

Don’t Wait To Be Hunted To Hide, That Was Always My Motto.

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.

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

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

Lick Your Neighbor As Yourself!

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

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

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

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

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.

Unhappy, But Not Unhappy Enough.

Vladimir: Did I Ever Leave You? Estragon: You Let Me Go.

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

Nothing Is Funnier Than Unhappiness.

Words Fail, There Are Times When Even They Fail.

I Lay Down Across Her With My Face In Her Breasts And My Hand On Her. We Lay There Without Moving. But Under Us All Moved, And Moved Us, Gently, Up And Down, And From Side To Side.

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.

Vladimir: What Do They Say? Estragon: They Talk About Their Lives. Vladimir: To Have Lived Is Not Enough For Them. Estragon: They Have To Talk About It.

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

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

My Mistakes Are My Life.

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.

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question.

Waiting For Godot

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.

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

I Want Very Much To Be Back In The Caul, On My Back In The Dark Forever.

The Sky Sinks In The Morning, This Fact Has Been Insufficiently Observed.

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 Knew It Would Soon Be The End, So I Played The Part, You Know, The Part Of — How Shall I Say, I Don’t Know.

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.

They Never Lynch Children, Babies, No Matter What They Do They Are Whitewashed In Advance.

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.

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

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.

The End Of A Life Is Always Vivifying.

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?

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

The Whisky Bears A Grudge Against The Decanter.

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

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

What Is More True Than Anything Else? To Swim Is True And To Sink Is True. One Cannot Speak Any More Of Being, One Must Speak Onlyof The Mess.

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

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.

I Don’t Like Animals. It’s A Strange Thing, I Don’t Like Men And I Don’t Like Animals. As For God, He Is Beginning To Disgust Me.

Two In Distressmake Sorrow Less.

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

Reality, Whether Approached Imaginatively Or Empirically, Remains A Surface, Hermetic.

The Tears Of The World Are A Constant Quantity. For Each One Who Begins To Weep, Somewhere Else Another Stops. The Same Is True Of The Laugh.

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.

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.

I Shall State Silences More Competently Than Ever A Better Man Spangled The Butterflies Of Vertigo.

Vladimir: I Don't Understand. Estragon: Use Your Intelligence, Can't You? Vladimir Uses His Intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I Remain In The Dark.

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

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

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.

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

Finished, It's Finished, Nearly Finished, It Must Be Nearly Finished. Grain Upon Grain, One By One, And One Day, Suddenly, There's A Heap, A Little Heap, The Impossible Heap. I Can't Be Punished Any More. I'll Go Now To My Kitchen, Ten Feet By Ten Feet By Ten Feet, And Wait For Him To Whistle Me. Nice Dimensions, Nice Proportions, I'll Lean On The Table, And Look At The Wall, And Wait For Him To Whistle Me.

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.

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.

Don't Look For Meaning In The Words. Listen To The Silences.

If You Do Not Love Me I Shall Not Be Loved If I Do Not Love You I Shall Not Love.

The Essential Is Never To Arrive Anywhere, Never To Be Anywhere. The Essential Is To Go On Squirming Forever At The Edge Of The Line, As Long As There Are Waters And Banks And Ravening In Heaven A Sporting God To Plague His Creature, Per Pro His Chosen Shits. I've Swallowed Three Hooks And Am Still Hungry. Hence The Howls. What A Joy To Know Where One Is, And Where One Will Stay, Without Being There. Nothing To Do But Strech Out Comfortably On The Rack, In The Blissful Knowledge You Are Nobody For Eternity.

In The Landscape Of Extinction, Precision Is Next To Godliness.

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

Poets Are The Sense, Philosophers The Intelligence Of Humanity.

Words Are The Clothes Thoughts Wear.

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

Watt's Concern, Deep As It Appeared, Was Not After All What The Figure Was, In Reality, But With What The Figure Appeared To Be, In Reality.

There's No Lack Of Void.

How Hideous Is The Semicolon.

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

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.

Estragon: Nothing To Be Done.

Dublin University Contains The Cream Of Ireland: Rich And Thick.

Ireland And The Irish

The Only Sin Is The Sin Of Being Born.

Try Again. Fail Again. Try Better.

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

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?

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

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

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?

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

What A Joy To Know Where One Is, And Where One Will Stay, Without Being There. Nothing To Do But Stretch Out Comfortably On The Rack, In The Blissful Knowledge You Are Nobody For All Eternity. A Pity I Should Have To Give Tongue At The Same Time, It Prevents It From Bleeding In Peace, Licking The Lips.

...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.

Then I Went Back Into The House And Wrote, It Is Midnight. The Rain Is Beating On The Windows. It Was Not Midnight. It Was Not Raining.

I Asked Her To Look At Me And After A Few Moments - (pause) - After A Few Moments She Did, But The Eyes Just Slits, Because Of The Glare I Bent Over Her To Get Them In The Shadow And They Opened. (pause. Low) Let Me In.

And Truly It Little Matters What I Say, This Or That Or Any Other Thing. Saying Is Inventing. Wrong, Very Rightly Wrong. You Invent Nothing, You Think You Are Inventing, You Think You Are Escaping, And All You Do Is Stammer Out Your Lesson, The Remnants Of A Pensum One Day Got By Heart And Long Forgotten, Life Without Tears, As It Is Wept.

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.

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

I Write About Myself With The Same Pencil And In The Same Exercise Book As About Him. It Is No Longer I, But Another Whose Life Is Just Beginning.

In My Head There Are Several Windows, That I Do Know, But Perhaps It Is Always The Same One, Open Variously On The Parading Universe.

Unfathomable Mind, Now Beacon, Now Sea.

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

Fail, Fail Again, Fail Better.

What Was God Doing With Himself Before The Creation?

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

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.

There Are Two Moments Worthwhile In Writing, The One When You Start And The Other When You Throw It In The Waste-paper Basket.

Hardly Had The Glow Been Kindled By Some Good Deed On Your Part Or By Some Little Triumph Over Your Rivals Or By A Word Of Praisefrom Your Parents Or Mentors When It Would Begin To Cool And Fade Leaving You In A Very Short Time As Chill And Dim As Before.

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

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

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

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

To Have Been Always What I Am - And So Changed From What I Was.

We Are All Born Crazy. Some Remain That Way.

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

If There Is One Question I Dread, To Which I Have Never Been Able To Invent A Satisfactory Reply, It Is The Question What Am I Doing.

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!

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

Mysterious Affair, Electricity.

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?

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

Asking For Help

Never But The One Matter. The Dead And Gone. The Dying And Going. From The Word Go.

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

Life Is Habit. Or Rather Life Is A Succession Of Habits.

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

There's Something Dripping In My Head. A Heart, A Heart In My Head.

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

Dear Incomprehension, It's Thanks To You I'll Be Myself, In The End.

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

[t]he Syndrome Known As Life Is Too Diffuse To Admit Of Palliation. For Every Symptom That Is Eased, Another Is Made Worse. The Horse Leech's Daughter Is A Closed System. Her Quantum Of Wantum Cannot Vary.

Normally I Didn’t See A Great Deal. I Didn’t Hear A Great Deal Either. I Didn’t Pay Attention. Strictly Speaking I Wasn’t There. Strictly Speaking I Believe I’ve Never Been Anywhere.

It Was The Only Way To Progress, To Stop.

Deplorable Mania, When Something Happens, To Inquire What.

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.)

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.

We All Are Born Mad. Some Remain So.

Waiting For Godot

The Old Endless Chain Of Love, Tolerance, Indifference, Aversion And Disgust

Love Requited Is A Short Circuit.

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.

That Passed The Time. It Would Have Passed In Any Case. Yes, But Not So Rapidly.

Against The Charitable Gesture There Is No Defence.

Suffering Is The Main Condition Of The Artistic Experience.

How Do You Manage It, She Said, At Your Age? I Told Her I'd Been Saving Up For Her All My Life.

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.

To Him Who Has Nothing It Is Forbidden Not To Relish Filth.

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

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

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.

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

The Loss Of My Sight Was A Great Fillip. If I Could Go Deaf And Dumb I Think I Might Pant On To Be A Hundred.

That Double-headed Monster Of Damnation And Salvation--time.

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.

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

We Are All Born; Some Remain So.

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