[from Samuel Beckett's Molloy]
the sea loomed high in the waning sky . . .
Smoke, sticks, flesh, hair, at evening, afar, flung about the craving for a fellow. I know how to summon these rags to cover my shame. I wonder what that means. . . .
not that seeing matters but it's something to go on with . . .
It is in the tranquility of decomposition that I remember the long confused emotion that was my life. . . .
the present tense, when speaking of the past. It is the mythological present . . .
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. . . .
I began to think, that is to say to listen harder . . .
there is never a last by the sea . . .