I still smile it's not worth the trouble any more for a long time now it's not been worth the trouble the tongue spring goes into the mud I stay like this not thirsty any more the tongue goes back into the mouth it closes it has to make a straight line now it's done I've made the image.

James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

How hideous is the semicolon.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.

My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

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