Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
It was the only way to progress, to stop.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
The essential doesn't change.
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
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.
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 had little talent for happiness.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
Words are all we have.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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