The Practice Of Fiction Can Be Dangerous:

But Where I Itty Now, O My Brothers, Is All On My Oddy Knocky, Where You Cannot Go. Tomorrow Is All Like Sweet Flowers And The Turning Vonny Earth And The Stars And The Old Luna Up There. ... And All That Cal.

Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Well. To What Do I Owe The Extreme Pleasure Of This Surprising Visit?

Beckett Does Not Believe In God, Though He Seems To Imply That God Has Committed An Unforgivable Sin By Not Existing.

He Said It Was Artificial Respiration, But Now I Find I Am To Have His Child.

All Art Preserves Mysteries Which Aesthetic Philosophers Tackle In Vain.