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All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?

Birth was the death of him.

Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Words are all we have.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

Where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.