Light black. From pole to pole.

You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.

Estragon: Nothing to be done.

Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.