Beckett Had An Unerring Light On Things,

Do The Structures Of Language And The Structures Of Reality (by Which I Mean What Actually Happens) Move Along Parallel Lines? Does Reality Essentially Remain Outside Language, Separate, Obdurate, Alien, Not Susceptible To Description? Is An Accurate And Vital Correspondence Between What Is And Our Perception Of It Impossible? Or Is It That We Are Obliged To Use Language Only In Order To Obscure And Distort Reality -- To Distort What Happens -- Because We Fear It?

I Don't Think There's Been Any Writer Like Samuel Beckett. He's Unique. He Was A Most Charming Man And I Used To Send Him My Plays.

Isn't It True That Every Aristocrat Wants To Die?

Clinton's Hands Remain Incredibly Clean, Don't They, And Tony Blair's Smile Remains As Wide As Ever. I View These Guises With Profound Contempt.

I Don't Intend To Simply Go Away And Write My Plays And Be A Good Boy. I Intend To Remain An Independent And Political Intelligence In My Own Right.