More "Licks" from Beckett's "Molloy" (Bolsa Chica Will Have to Wait)

Meant to take some photos down at Bolsa Chica, but when I unholstered my camera it was dead. Perhaps another time. Saw the sun rise above Modjeska. A thousand fires on the pennisula. A low-flying heron, looking like a stiff alderman.

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From Beckett's Molloy:

• I would have been I think an excellent husband, incapable of wearying of my wife and committing adultery only from absent-mindedness
• And these different windows that open in my head, when I grope again among those days
• The black speck I was, in the great pale stretch of sand, who could wish it harm
• my astonishing old age, still green in places
• And every time I say, I said this, or I said that, or speak of a voice saying, far away inside me, Molloy, and then a fine phrase more or less clear and simple, or find myself compelled to attribute others intelligible words, or hear my own voice uttering to others more or less articulate sounds, I am merely complying with the convention that demands you either lie or hold your peace
• The sun's beams shone through the rift in the curtains and made visible the sabbath of the motes
• save in so far as such a son might bear, like a scurf of placenta, her stamp
• What I heard, in my soul I suppose, where the acoustics are so bad, was a first syllable, Mol, very clear, followed almost at once by a second, very thick, as though gobbled by the first, and which might have been oy as it might have been ose, or one, or even oc
• It seemed to me that all language was an excess of language
• Like a Fate who had run out of thread
• I sought in my mind, where all I need is to be found
• the human race, in its slow ascension towards the light