Words are all we have.
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.
Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
So all things limp together for the only possible.
It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
Enough to know no knowing.
We are all born; some remain so.
Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
Normally I didn’t see a great deal. I didn’t hear a great deal either. I didn’t pay attention. Strictly speaking I wasn’t there. Strictly speaking I believe I’ve never been anywhere.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?
Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.
The time-state of attainment eliminates so accurately the time-state of aspiration, that the actual seems the inevitable, and, all conscious intellectual effort to reconstitute the invisible and unthinkable as a reality being fruitless, we are incapable of appreciating our joy by comparing it with our sorrow.
Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
The end of a life is always vivifying.
Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up there with the rest. Hovel and stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful.
Do you always believe in the life to come? Mine was always that.
Let's go." "We can't." "Why not?" "We're waiting for Godot.
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
Make sense who may. I switch off.
Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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