We are all born; some remain so.

There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

To restore silence is the role of objects.