To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

We all are born mad. Some remain so.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.

Estragon: Nothing to be done.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.