We wait. We are bored. (He throws up his hand.) No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it. Good. A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's get to work! (He advances towards the heap, stops in his stride.) In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone more, in the midst of nothingness!

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.

We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench

The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

Better hope deferred than none.