I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

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 human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).

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.

The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.