We are all born mad. Some remain so.
You're on Earth. There's no cure for that.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
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.
I can't go on, I'll go on.
I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.
Words are the clothes thoughts wear.
It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.
In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
If you do not love me I shall not be loved. If I do not love you I shall not love.
The only sin is the sin of being born
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
Ah earth you old extinguisher.
I shall soon be quite dead at last in spite of all.
One day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second.
The more people I meet the happier I become.
I must be happy, he said, it is less pleasant than I should have thought.
