This much Kafka was absolutely sure of: First, that someone must be a fool if he is to help; second, that only a fool's help is real help. The only uncertain thing is: can such help still do a human being any good? It is more likely to help the angels who could do without help. Thus as Kafka puts it, there is an infinite amount of hope, but not for us.
this would be precisely where the comic is located and the reason why Beckett never did kill himself after all.
The Merzbau in Hannover was destroyed in an Allied air raid and the Norwegian version fell a victim to a fire.
I was going to write down everything I saw and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down everything I do and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down all that passes by and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down whatever occurs to me and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down everything that is said and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down what it all feels like and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down whatever I make use of and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down how each thing sits in relation to some other thing and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down the way whatever comes into view leaves it again and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down everything that could be a pathogen to some other thing and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down the name of every color I could think of and then I thought no that's not the way I should write down a description of every sound and then I thought no that's not the way.
straw. a trampled area. warnings and trays. the indistinction between moving and sitting still is not only a matter of inertia but the persistence of motion in the most sedentary bodies. the countryside seems less menacing if you keep on going through it. this may or may not be a good thing depending whether it remains a menace to those not traveling as quickly. the point though is that they do travel. if everyone remembered this the countryside would not be such a dangerous place.
the whirlwind which rises between is the point of most intimate contact as we pass.
life makes things out of water. it is not clear how it gets from there to the city streets with their furtive nods and long complaints to no one because everyone can hear. we may be far from suffering when we are in motion but only that which moves suffers which makes us closer to disaster with every yard gained. the faster you are going the more it will hurt. my neighborhood for instance teems.
you will get no argument from me. chairs unable to talk facing each other or the fence benign and silent but in great peril. admitting of the rabble who jostle and bare their teeth in malice or not.
I went to write my name in the wet concrete and my finger got stuck and there I sat in the sun and the rain and the snow and hail and sleet and then in the sun again. by this time no one could really tell I was there except that in the depression under my finger a miniscule pool of water was supporting a miniscule population of the unmentionably miniscule.
sighing we stretched out on the sidewalk. what a dirty thing to do. descend into the viral cloud which they say hovers at the ground all the way down my street. speak in tongues as you do it or rather speak in no tongue but speak and let it go. it is not that one must say precisely any particular thing but that precisely a particular thing must be said but there is no stopping there and that is why we find ourselves still reading and moving our lips as we do so.
I told him that is the preacher that I wanted to be a writer. he told me I already was. that was the only time he pegged me with accuracy or said anything helpful at all. mom had sent me there so before going I downed half a pint of rum and smoked half a joint and caring not about the bouquet that surely preceded me walked into his office and waited for words of wisdom of which I received those just mentioned. beyond that he got everything wrong but for a short while I would sit and listen rapt with hope and a hopeless sort of love that would not make its way back to me for some years if ever. the odd thing is he never mentioned faith or god in any of our conversations which would have extinguished my ardor immediately. what kind of preacher was he. a prescient one perhaps in this one way.