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

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.

The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).

All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.