In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? ― James Joyce, Dubliners: The Dead. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition. ― James Joyce, Dubliners: Eveline. (Grant Richards… Continue reading James Joyce
Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it’s me? — Samuel Beckett, Stories and Texts for Nothing. (Grove Press; First Printing edition, January 13, 1994) Originally published January 1st 1974.
I hate solitude, but I am afraid of intimacy. The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself which to turn into a dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction. — Iris Murdoch, Under the Net. (Chatto & Windus 1954)
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go. ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot. (Grove Press; 1 edition, May 17, 2011) Originally published 1952. Premiered 5 January 1953 at theThéâtre de Babylone, Paris France.
But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. — James Joyce, from “Araby,” Dubliners. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
saying again if you do not teach me I shall not learn saying again there is a last even of last times last times of begging last times of loving of knowing not knowing pretending a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if… Continue reading Samuel Beckett