To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Do we mean love, when we say love?
We could have saved sixpence. We could have saved fivepence. But at what cost?
Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.