Sleep is uncanny, I have always found it so, a nightly dress-rehearsal for being dead.

No two things the same, the equals sign a scandal.

And indeed nothing had happened, a momentous nothing, just another of the great world's shrugs of indifference.

Dogs are dim creatures, do not speak to me of their good sense--have you ever heard of a team of tomcats hauling a sled across the frozen wastes?

Throughout the 1960s and 1970s devoted Beckett readers greeted each successively shorter volume from the master with a mixture of awe and apprehensiveness; it was like watching a great mathematician wielding an infinitesimal calculus, his equations approaching nearer and still nearer to the null point.

The world is not real for me until it has been pushed through the mesh of language.

I would be far more critical than any reviewer could be of my own work. So I simply don't read them.