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And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.
There's man all over for you,
blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.
The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
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.
Mouth on fire...stream of words...in her ear...practically in her ear...not catching the half...not the quarter...no idea what she's saying!...imagine! no idea what she's saying!...and can't stop...
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.
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. Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable (1959) page 418
They give birth astride a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
Vladimir: That passed the time. Estragon: It would have passed in any case. Vladimir: Yes, but not so rapidly.
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