We are all born mad. Some remain so.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
That’s how it is on this bitch of an earth.
I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.
Habit is a great deadener.
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