As for my needs, they had dwindled as it were to my dimensions and become, if I may say so, of so exquisite a quality as to exclude all thought of succour.
I stopped being half-witted and became sly whenever I took the trouble.
But it is useless to dwell on this period of my life. If I go on long enough calling that my life I’ll end up by believing it.
Hell must be like... reminiscing about the good old days when we wished we were dead.
Personally I always preferred Lipton’s.
I shall soon be quite dead at last in spite of all.
Nothing to be done...
Constipation is a sign of good health in pomeranians.
We are not merely more weary because of yesterday, we are other, no longer what we were before the calamity of yesterday.
Nowhere in particular on the way from A to Z. Or say for verisimilitude the Balloygan Road. That dear old back road. Somewhere on the Ballyogan Road in lieu of nowhere in particular. Where no truck anymore. Somewhere on the Ballyogan Road on the way from A to Z.
Misfortunes, blessings, I have no time to pick my words, I am in a hurry to be done. And yet no, I am in no hurry.
The turmoil of the day freezes in a thousand absurd postures.
We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist.
What am I doing now, I’m trying to see where I am, so as to be able to go elsewhere, should occasion arise, or else simply to say, You have merely to wait till they come and fetch you, that’s my impression at times.
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.