Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It’s awful.
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.
I find myself now alone at the end of a long and ruthless journey. Everything is dissolved.
Nothing is more real than nothing.
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
My mistakes are my life.
To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
Can’t do with ruins. Accumulation is my style.
I shall not speak of her. I shall not speak of her.
My way is in the sand flowing between the shingle and the dune. The summer rain pours on me.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
Words are all we have.
I can’t go on like this.
I sweat. They are bound to sweat in the end.
That’s what I’ll do now, I’m going to pull my trousers down.)
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.
Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons.
I’m a man, I can go out, I know my way about, and I’m not here.
I do not know what to do.
I’ll be back at five o’clock.
If there were only silence, if I could die, I would die.
You must go on, that’s all I know.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
It’s so nice to know where you’re going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.
What matter who’s speaking?
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
What was all the fuss?
Failure is not the opposite of success, it’s a part of it.
This is the most awful thing about being there, that his presence should remind me of his absence, this is the unvarying course.
It’s not every day that we are needed.
Our knowledge is much closer to ignorance than to truth.
I have no voice and I must scream.
Time has no meaning except in terms of its ending.
There’s no end to the absurdities of the human mind.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
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