Cam M. Roberts

Cam M. Roberts

"All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail Better." - Samuel Beckett


10 notes

… how I manage, under such conditions, to do what I’m doing, what am I doing, I must find out what I’m doing, tell me what you’re doing and I’ll ask you how it’s possible, I hear, you say I hear, and that I seek, it’s a lie, I seek nothing, nothing any more, no matter, let’s leave it, no harking, and that I seek, listen to them now, jogging my memory, seek what, firstly what it is, secondly where it comes from, thirdly how I manage, that’s it, now we’ve got it, thirdly how I manage, to do it, seeing that this, considering that that, inasmuch as God knows what, that’s clear now, how I manage to hear, and how I manage to understand, it’s a lie, what would I understand with, that’s what I’m asking, how I manage to understand…
Samuel BeckettThe Unnamable

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1 note

He heard the wind coming in off the desert and he heard his own breathing. When he raised his head to look out he saw the expriest stumbling among the bones and holding aloft a cross he’d fashioned out of the shins of a ram and he’d lashed them together with strips of hide and he was holding the thing before him like some mad dowser in the bleak of desert and calling out in a tongue both alien and extinct.
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

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113 notes

And to tell the truth I not only knew who I was, but I had a sharper and clearer sense of my identity than ever before, in spite of its deep lesions and the wounds with which it was covered. And from this point of view I was less fortunate than my other acquaintances. I am sorry if this last phrase is not so happy as it might be. It deserved, who knows, to be without ambiguity.
Samuel Beckett, Molloy

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3 notes

And then I no longer heard the wind or saw the sun. Nothing entered, nothing left my nook. I lay on my side in my polo shorts, my fingers lightly in contact with the blades of grass, the earthflowers, the petals of the earthflowers flaking, lying on my palm, the underside of all the great foliage dark, above me, but it is only afterwards I say the foliage was dark, the petals flaking, then I said nothing, I remarked nothing, things happened upon me, then in my times of shelter, the shades, the petals, carried themselves, carried their bodies upon me, and nothing entered my nook, nothing left it.
Harold Pinter, A Slight Ache

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