Birth was the death of him.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.

I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.

Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.

Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.