Without Lifting A Finger

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. * 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 ...

[From Samuel Beckett's Hidden Drives: Structural Uses of Depth Psychology by J. D. O'Hara]

From Molloy : I who had loved the image of old Geulincx, dead young, who left me free, on the black boat of Ulysses, to crawl towards the East, along the deck. * Arnold Geulincx (31 January 1624 – November 1669) was a Flemish philosopher . He was one of the followers of René Descartes who tried to work out more detailed versions of a generally Cartesian philosophy. Samuel Beckett cited Geulincx as a key influence and interlocutor because of Geulincx's emphasis on the powerlessness and ignorance of the human condition. [ 1 ] He is cited by Samuel Beckett , whose character Murphy remembers the "beautiful Belgo-Latin of Arnold Geulincx", and in particular the gloomy nostrum (frequently repeated by Beckett to inquisitive critics) Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis (roughly, 'Where you are worth nothing, there you should want nothing.') In the novel Molloy (1950), Beckett's eponymous character describes himself as "I who had loved the image of o...

you would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins To restore silence is the role of objects and the arctic radiance comes pissing on our midnights I took a pebble from my pocket and sucked it. It was smooth, from having been sucked so long, by me, and beaten by the storm and soon through that mist too which rises in me every day and veils the world from me and veils me from myself Yes, even then, when already all was fading, waves and particles, there could be no things but nameless things, no names but thingless names Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong Watch wound and buried by the watchmaker, before he died, whose ruined works will one day speak of God, to the worms