How all becomes clear and simple when one opens an eye on the within, having of course previously exposed it to the without, in order to benefit by the contrast.
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.
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.
Let us do something, while we have the chance! ... Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for one the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us!
In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
Words are all we have.
It's a rare thing not to have been bonny -- once.
In reality we are one and all from the unthinkable first to the no less unthinkable last glued together in a vast imbrication of flesh without breach or fissure.
Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
Mysterious affair, electricity.
I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still, and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.
Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
Spend the years of learning squandering
Courage for the years of wandering
Through a world politely turning
From the loutishness of learning.
If I were in the unenviable position of having to study my work my points of departure would be the "Naught is more real ..." and the "Ubi nihil vales ..." both already in Murphy and neither very rational.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
Curiosity is the hair of our habit tending to stand on end. It rarely happens that our attention is not stained in greater or lesser degree by this animal element.
She dragged me across the floor, stopping from time to time only to kick me. I didn't know our cows too could be so inhuman.
I shall die tepid, without enthusiasm.
As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.
What is that unforgettable line?
The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
There's never an end for the sea.
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.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
Seen no matter how and said as seen. Dread of black. Of white. Of void. Let her vanish. And the rest. For good.
The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
I didn't understand women at that period. I still don't for that matter. Nor men either. Nor animals either. What I understand best, which is not saying much, are my pains.
Habit is a great deadener.
All I know is that the hours are long... and constrain us to beguile them with proceedings which ... may at first sight seem reasonable, until they become a habit.
We are all born crazy. Some of us remain that way.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
If you do not love me I shall not be loved. If I do not love you I shall not love.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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.
The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust.
Constipation is a sign of good health in pomeranians.
That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.
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?
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
I don't like animals. It's a strange thing, I don't like men and I don't like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.
Try again. Fail again. Try better.
There is man in his entirety, blaming his shoe when his foot is guilty.
I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
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.
Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
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.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
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.
We are all born; some remain so.
I have finished Pasternak with mixed feelings, which is more than I hoped for.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
Have you shat, my child, I said gently.
The end of a life is always vivifying.
Look, she said stooping over her breasts, the haloes are darkening already. I summoned up my remaining strength and said, Abort, abort and they'll blush like new.
For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.
Incontinent the void. The zenith. Evening again. When not night it will be evening. Death again of deathless day. On one hand embers. On the other ashes. Day without end won and lost. Unseen.
S: He is weeping, sir, shall I note it?
A: I really do not know what to advise, miss.
S: Inasmuch as...how shal I say?...human trait...can one say in English?
A: I have never come across it, miss, but no doubt.
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation -- Time.
Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
What is more true than anything else? To swim is true and to sink is true. One cannot speak any more of being, one must speak onlyof the mess.
The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.
Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.
God is love. Yes or no? No.
It was December, I had never felt so cold, the eel soup lay heavy on my stomach, I was afraid I'd die, I turned aside to vomit, I envied them.
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all. It is true the population has increased.
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.
Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
What are we doing here, that is the question.
What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come.
In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
Tears and laughter, they are so much Gaelic to me.
With all this darkness round me I feel less alone. In a way. I love to get up and move about in it, then back here to ... me.
I am interested in the shape of ideas, even if I do not believe in them.
I am interested in the shape of ideas even if I do not believe in them. There is a wonderful sentence in Augustine ... "Do not despair: one of the thieves was saved; do not presume: one of the thieves was damned." That sentence had a wonderful shape. It is the shape that matters.
He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!
Don't wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench.
All has not been said and never will be.
If I had known who Godot is, I would have written it in the script.
Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that's what I've had to make the best of.
Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
What a weary way since that first disaster, what nerves torn from the heart of insentience, with the appertaining terror and the cerebellum on fire. It took him a long time to adapt himself to this excoriation.
What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!
Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
Personally I always preferred Lipton's.
Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
The forms are many in which the unchanging seeks relief from its formlessness.
What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?
Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.
Real scratching is superior to masturbation, in my opinion.
Real scratching is superior to masturbation, in my opinion. One can masturbate up to the age of seventy, and even beyond, but in the end it becomes a mere habit. Whereas to scratch myself properly I would have needed a dozen hands. I itched all over, on the privates, in the bush up to the navel, under the arms, in the arse, and then patches of eczema and psoriasis that I could set raging merely by thinking of them. It was in the arse I had the most pleasure, I stuck in my forefinger up to the knuckle. Later, if I had to shit, the pain was atrocious. But I hardly shat any more.
I speak for an art ... weary of its puny exploits, weary of pretending to be able, of being able, of doing a little better the same old thing, of going a little further along a dreary road.
People are bloody ignorant apes.
And if I sometimes hear nothing for hours on end it is for reasons of which I know nothing, or because about me all goes really silent, from time to time, whereas for the righteous the tumult of the world never stops.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?
This should all be rewritten in the pluperfect.
I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.
You cannot mention everything in its proper place, you must choose, between the things not worth mentioning and those and those even less so.
All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
What can it matter to me, that I succeed or fail ? The undertaking is none of mine, if they want me to succeed I'll fail, and vice versa, so as not to be rid of my tormentors.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.
Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
We are not merely more weary because of yesterday, we are other, no longer what we were before the calamity of yesterday.
Do we mean love, when we say love?
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
You're on earth. There's no cure for that.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
Ah earth you old extinguisher.