Words are all we have.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.

Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?

Personally of course I regret everything. Not a word, not a deed, not a thought, not a need, not a grief, not a joy, not a girl, not a boy, not a doubt, not a trust, not a scorn, not a lust, not a hope, not a fear, not a smile, not a tear, not a name, not a face, no time, no place...that I do not regret, exceedingly. An ordure, from beginning to end.

The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.