Success and failure on the public level never mattered much to me, in fact I feel more at home with the latter, having breathed deep of its vivifying air all my writing life up to the last couple of years.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.

Do we mean love, when we say love?

Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.