For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.

What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

The essential is never to arrive anywhere, never to be anywhere. The essential is to go on squirming forever at the edge of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven a sporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits. I've swallowed three hooks and am still hungry. Hence the howls. What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but strech out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for eternity.

I can't go on. I'll go on.

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.