Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it’s me? Samuel Beckett, Texts for Nothing #4 (via frenchtwist)
And more and more my language appears to me like a veil which one has to tear apart in order to get to those things (or the nothingness) lying behind it.

Samuel Beckett, 1937 from The Letters  *

via septembrist:::billyjane (via frenchtwist)

(via frenchtwist)