Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.

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 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

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.

Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.