Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

Birth was the death of him.

James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

Make sense who may. I switch off.

Where you have nothing, there you should want nothing.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.