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.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
All has not been said and never will be.
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.
Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
What do we do now, now that we are happy?
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
What are we doing here, that is the question.
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.
All life long, the same questions, the same answers.
All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
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!
Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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.
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.
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.
To restore silence is the role of objects.
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
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