Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
What do we do now, now that we are happy?
With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.
But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
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.
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.
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!
All has not been said and never will be.
All life long, the same questions, the same answers.
The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust
Better hope deferred than none.
People are bloody ignorant apes.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
If I was dead, I wouldn't know I was dead. That's the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps.
James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.
There's never an end for the sea.
Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
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.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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