Light black. From pole to pole.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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.
I say me, knowing all the while it’s not me.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
Do you always believe in the life to come? Mine was always that.
How time flies when one has fun!
All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. ‘Nothing is more real than nothing.’ They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.
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.
There’s no lack of void.
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.
In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
Was I asleep? Had I slept?
Dying for dark – the darker the worse. Strange.
There is man in his entirety, blaming his shoe when his foot is guilty.
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.