To restore silence is the role of objects.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.
Silence, yes, but what silence! For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.
...you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it's done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on
I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.
Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.
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