God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
The fact is, it seems, that the most you can hope is to be a little less, in the end, the creature you were in the beginning, and the middle.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
The essential is never to arrive anywhere, never to be anywhere. The essential is to go on squirming forever at the edge of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven a sporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits. I've swallowed three hooks and am still hungry. Hence the howls. What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but strech out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for eternity.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?
Mysterious affair, electricity.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.
Yesterday is not a milestone that has been passed, but a daystone on the beaten track of the years, and irremediably part of us, within us, heavy and dangerous. We are not merely more weary because of yesterday, we are other, no longer what we were before the calamity of yesterday.
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.
There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
We all are born mad. Some remain so.
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