For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker. ― Samuel Beckett, Molloy. (Grove Press, January 12, 1994) Originally published 1951. Advertisements
Weary with my weariness, white last moon, sole regret, not even. To be dead, before her, on her, with her, and turn, dead on dead, about poor mankind, and never have to die anymore, from among the living. Not even, not even that. My moon was here below, far below, the little I was able… Continue reading Samuel Becket
When you’re in the shit up to your neck, there’s nothing left to do but sing. ― Samuel Beckett
I’m all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that… Continue reading Samuel Beckett
The artistic life is a long, lovely suicide. — Oscar Wilde
Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power. — Oscar Wilde
I am worn out with dreams; — W. B. Yeats, from “Men Improve with the Years,” The Wild Swans At Coole. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, June 17, 2004) Originally published 1919.