Evoke at painful junctures, when discouragement threatens to raise its head, the image of a vast cretinous mouth, red blubber and slobbering, in solitary confinement, extruding indefatigably, with a noise of wet kisses and washing in a tub, the words that obstruct it.
God knows I’m not intelligent otherwise I’d be dead.
If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.
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.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust.
Make sense who may. I switch off.
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.
Nothing is more real than nothing.
The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.
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.
They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
Hamm: There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.