“It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reas…” — Samuel Beckett

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.

Birth was the death of him.

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

Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.