Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
Silence, yes, but what silence! For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps.
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
God is love. Yes or no? No.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.