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?
Fail, fail again, fail better.
What are we doing here, that is the question.
All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
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.
What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
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.
People are bloody ignorant apes.
The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust
The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.
If I was dead, I wouldn't know I was dead. That's the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.
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.
To restore silence is the role of objects.
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
There's never an end for the sea.
The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
It was the only way to progress, to stop.
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.
The only sin is the sin of being born.
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.
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
When a man in a forest thinks he is going forward in a straight line, in reality he is going in a circle, I did my best to go in a circle, hoping to go in a straight line.
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