I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Better hope deferred than none.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.
I am interested in the shape of ideas even if I do not believe in them. There is a wonderful sentence in Augustine . . . "Do not despair: one of the thieves was saved; do not presume: one of the thieves was damned." That sentence had a wonderful shape. It is the shape that matters.
Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
All has not been said and never will be.
Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Two in distressmake sorrow less.
My mistakes are my life.
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!
Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.
All this business of a labour to accomplish, before I can end, of words to say, a truth to recover, in order to say it, before I can end, of an imposed task, once known, long neglected, finally forgotten, to perform, before I can be done with speaking, done with listening, I invented it all, in the hope it would console me, help me to go on, allow me to think of myself as somewhere on a road, moving, between a beginning and an end, gaining ground, losing ground, getting lost, but somehow in the long run making headway.
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?
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
What is that unforgettable line?
The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.
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