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.
Do we mean love, when we say love?
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
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.
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.
Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.
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.
There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.
The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
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.
For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
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