There’s something dark in me, deep under all my thoughts, something I can’t measure out with thoughts, a sort of life that can’t be expressed in words and which is my life, all the same.
Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away;
Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air.
You better watch out,
There may be dogs about
I’ve looked over Jordan, and I have seen
Things are not what they seem.
There is no solace above or below us, only small, solitary striving, battling one another . . . I pray to myself, for myself.
What can I say? There are times when holding a needle and thread, or a book, or a man – it’s all the same.
He has spent 30 years trying to write his way out of the human condition and must finally accept that it cannot be done. He has come to the end of words.