All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
My mistakes are my life.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me. A ton of worms in an acre, that is a wonderful thought, a ton of worms, I believe it.
ll 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.
If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.