What is that unforgettable line?
Habit is a great deadener.
And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.
I had little talent for happiness.
Fail, fail again, fail better.
Two in distressmake sorrow less.
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
What was God doing with himself before the creation?
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
The essential doesn't change.
The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
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.
Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
How all becomes clear and simple when one opens an eye on the within, having of course previously exposed it to the without, in order to benefit by the contrast.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
Birth was the death of him.
We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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