I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.

People are bloody ignorant apes.

Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.

Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.

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

Fail, fail again, fail better.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.