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.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
The essential doesn’t change.
Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
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.
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.
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation – Time.
Lick your neighbor as yourself!
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?
Love requited is a short circuit.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
Where you have nothing, there you should want nothing.