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.

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

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

I am interested in the shape of ideas even if I do not believe in them. There is a wonderful sentence in Augustine . . . "Do not despair: one of the thieves was saved; do not presume: one of the thieves was damned." That sentence had a wonderful shape. It is the shape that matters.

We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.

The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.