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.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most

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

Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.

Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?

Adulterers, take warning, never admit.