Samuel Beckett, born on this day in 1906.
Ahab in Ch. 135; The Chase.—Third Day
Thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness and a
calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too much
for that. And yet, I've sometimes thought my brain was very calm—frozen
calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the contents
turned to ice, and shiver it. And still this hair is growing now; this
moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it's like that sort
of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy clefts of
Greenland ice or in Vesuvius lava.
It’s for the whole there seems to be no spell. Perhaps there is no whole, before you’re dead. [...] I hear from here the howl resolving all, even if it is not mine. Meanwhile there’s no use knowing you are gone, you are not, you are writhing yet, the hair is growing, the nails are growing, the entrails emptying, all the morticians are dead.