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.
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.
It’s so nice to know where you’re going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.
The fact is, it seems, that the most you can hope is to be a little less, in the end, the creature you were in the beginning, and the middle.
All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.
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.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It’s awful.
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.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?
Do we mean love, when we say love?
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.
Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
If by Godot I had meant God I would have said God, and not Godot.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
Unfathomable mind: now beacon, now sea.
People are bloody ignorant apes.
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.