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, Worstward Ho

7 notes

Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not,
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices,
That if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
William Shakespeare, from The Tempest [Act III, Sc. 2]

Filed under William Shakespeare The Tempest Caliban theatre literature poetry tragicomedy writing performing arts quote

3 notes

Jill. Fred phoned. He can’t make tonight.
He said he’d call again, as soon as poss.
I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.
He said to tell you he was fine,
Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,
The crap you have to fight.
You’re sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse.

I was well acquainted with the pong myself,
I told him, and I counselled calm.
Don’t let the fuckers get you down,
Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes,
Go on the town, burn someone to death,
Find another tart, giver her some hammer,
Live while you’re young, until it palls,
Kick the first blind man you meet in the balls.

Anyway he’ll call again.

I’ll be back in time for tea.

Your loving mother.
Harold Pinter, “Message

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3 notes

How did we know each other?
Was it the sea-enchantment in his eyes
of Thetis, is sea-mother?

What was the token given?
I was alone, bereft,
and wore no zone, no crown,

and he was shipwrecked,
drifting without chart,
famished and tempest-driven

the fury of the tempest in his eyes,
the bane of battle
and the legions lost;

for that was victory
and Troy-gates broken
in memory of the Body,

wounded, stricken,
the insult of the charioteer,
the chariot furiously driven,

the Furies’ taunt?
Take heart Achilles, for you may not die,
immortal and invincible;

though the Achilles-heel treads lightly,
still I feel the tightening muscles,
the taut sinews quiver,

as if I, Helen, had withdrawn
from the bruised and swollen flesh,
the arrow from its wound.
H.D., from Helen in Egypt [Pallinode I: 4]

Filed under H.D. Hilda Doolittle Helen in Egypt modernist poetry poetry literature writing quote

9 notes

… the question may be asked, off the record, why time doesn’t pass, doesn’t pass from you, why it piles up all about you, instant on instant, on all sides, deeper and deeper, thicker and thicker, your time, others’ time, the time of the ancient dead and the dead yet unborn, why it buries you grain by grain neither dead nor alive, with no memory of anything, no hope of anything, no knowledge of anything, no history and no prospects, buried under the seconds, saying any old thing, your mouth full of sand, oh I know it’s immaterial, time is one thing, I another, but the question may be asked, why time doesn’t pass, just like that, off the record, en passant, to pass the time, I think that’s all, for the moment, I see nothing else, I see nothing whatever, for the time being.
Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

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