Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Where you have nothing, there you should want nothing.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.