We All Are Born Mad. Some Remain

Not To Want To Say, Not To Know What You Want To Say, Not To Be Able To Say What You Think You Want To Say, And Never To Stop Saying, Or Hardly Ever, That Is The Thing To Keep In Mind, Even In The Heat Of Composition.

It Was The Only Way To Progress, To Stop.

If By Godot I Had Meant God I Would Have Said God, And Not Godot.

To Find A Form That Accommodates The Mess, That Is The Task Of The Artist Now.

There's Man All Over For You, Blaming On His Boots The Fault Of His Feet.