Mysterious affair, electricity.
It is better to adopt the simplest explanation, even if it is not simple, even if it does not explain very much. A bright light is not necessary, a taper is all one needs to live in strangeness, if it faithfully burns.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.
But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.
Estragon: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist? Vladimir: Yes, yes, we’re magicians.
Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It’d give us an erection.
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
I cannot explain my plays. Each must find out for himself what is meant.
I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I’d been saving up for her all my life.
It’s a rare thing not to have been bonny – once.
ESTRAGON: I can’t go on like this. VLADIMIR: That’s what you think.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.
There is this to be said for Dachsunds of such length and lowness as Nelly, that it makes very little difference to their appearance whether they stand, sit or lie.
Estragon: Nothing to be done.
All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.