The essential doesn't change.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

I asked her to look at me and after a few moments - (pause) - after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare I bent over her to get them in the shadow and they opened. (Pause. Low) Let me in.

I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.

For the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something, just as the only way one can speak of God is to speak of him as though he were a man, which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time, and as the only way one can speak of man, even our anthropologists have realized that, is to speak of him as though he were a termite.