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.
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?
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.
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