God is a witness that cannot be sworn.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

Do we mean love, when we say love?

My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

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

What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come

How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?