To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
It's so nice to know where you're going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.
We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?