Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Don’t look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.
Words are the clothes thoughts wear.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’ You won’t believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
What do we do now, now that we are happy?
Personally of course I regret everything. Not a word, not a deed, not a thought, not a need, not a grief, not a joy, not a girl, not a boy, not a doubt, not a trust, not a scorn, not a lust, not a hope, not a fear, not a smile, not a tear, not a name, not a face, no time, no place…that I do not regret, exceedingly. An ordure, from beginning to end.
Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher’s regular, what normal woman wants affection?
Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself, in the end.
Nothing is more real than nothing.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
Perhaps that’s what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that’s what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I’m neither one side nor the other, I’m in the middle, I’m the partition, I’ve two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that’s what I feel, myself vibrating, I’m the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don’t belong to either.
Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.
All has not been said and never will be.
All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!
My mistakes are my life.
Better hope deferred than none.
For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.