With both agents and publishers hungry for bestsellers, literature will have to end up as a cottage industry.

Beckett does not believe in God, though he seems to imply that God has committed an unforgivable sin by not existing.

For the serious artist does not satisfy needs

The next morning I woke up at oh eight oh oh hours, my brothers, and as I still felt shagged and fagged and fashed and bashed and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought I would not go to school.

The possession of a book becomes a substitute for reading it.

Immortality makes sense only when the individual soul can be thought of as merging into a great collective mush of sainthood. If we take anything with us into the next world, it is not what survives in the memories of our relicts.

Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more Civilized. Civilized my syphilised yarbles.