We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.

Let's go." "We can't." "Why not?" "We're waiting for Godot.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?