She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.
Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.
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.
Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.
The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.
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.
I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still, and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.
Poetry is essentially the antithesis of Metaphysics: Metaphysics purge the mind of the senses and cultivate the disembodiment of the spiritual; Poetry is all passionate and feeling and animates the inanimate; Metaphysics are most perfect when concerned with universals; Poetry, when most concerned with particulars.
I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
The short winter’s day was drawing to a close. It seems to me sometimes that these are the only days I have ever known, and especially that most charming moment of all, just before night wipes them out.
The end of a life is always vivifying.
They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
We could have saved sixpence. We could have saved fivepence. But at what cost?
it's impossible I should have a mind and I have one
It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.
To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.
How hideous is the semicolon.
Make sense who may. I switch off.
You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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