James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Scratch an old man and find a Quintilian.
Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
But let us persevere in what we have resolved, before we forget.
That passed the time. ESTRAGON: It would have passed in any case.
He had a curious hunted walk, like that of a destitute diabetic in a strange city.
Leave them there, sweating and icy, there is better elsewhere. No, life ends and no, there is nothing elsewhere, and no question now of ever finding again that white speck lost in whiteness, to see if they still lie still in the stress of that storm, or of a worse storm, or in the black dark for good, or the great whiteness unchanging, and if not what they are doing.
ESTRAGON: Let’s hang ourselves immediately!
But to-morrow I won’t remember having met anyone to-day. So don’t count on me to enlighten you.
What I’d like now is to speak of the things that are left, say my goodbyes, finish dying. They don’t want that. Yes, there is more than one, apparently. But it’s always the same one that comes. You’ll do that later, he says.
It is easier to raise a shrine than bring the deity down to haunt it.
POZZO: He speaks to me again! If this goes on much longer we’ll soon be old friends.
Gnawing to be gone. Less no good. Worse no good. Only one good. Gone. Gone for good. Till then gnaw on. All gnaw on. To be gone.
I say living without knowing what it is. I tried to live without knowing what I was trying.
So I offer you only my deeply affectionate and compassionate thoughts and wish for you only that the strange thing may never fail you, whatever it is, that gives us the strength to live on and on with our wounds.
A peristalsis of light, worming its way into the dark.
I wait for us perhaps to come back and we don’t come back for the evening perhaps to whisper to me what the morning had sung and that day to that morning no evening.
And I note here the little beat my heart once missed, in my home, when a fly, flying low above my ash-tray, raised a little ash, with the breath of its wings. And I grew gradually weaker and weaker and more and more content.
He who has waited long enough will wait forever.
I used not to know where I was going, but I knew I would arrive, I knew there would be an end to the long blind road.
Murphy was one of the elect, who require everything to remind them of something else.