on Malone dies by Beckett

Imagine a pencil, not one of the fancy mechanical pencils of today, but a standard pen­cil: a bit of wood surrounding a lead core. As you write, it gradually diminishes to noth­ing. First the point dulls, eventually to the point where you need to re-sharpen the pencil, one way or another. Gradually there is less and less pencil, until there is barely enough left to hold as you write. But the pencil never does fully diminish to nothing, for eventually it becomes too small to write with, and then you must take up another pencil. A pencil thus gets close to becoming nothing, but never quite arrives.

This, I think, is Beckett’s model of human life.



Guillaume Appolinaire / Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki


It’s raining women’s voices as if they had died even in memory
And it’s raining you as well marvelous encounters of my life o little drops
Those rearing clouds begin to neigh a whole universe of auricular cities
Listen if it rains while regret and disdain weep to an ancient music
Listen to the bonds fall off which hold you above and below