Samuel Beckett

I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

a definition of poetry "imaginary gardens with real toads in them"

One of the lessons of history is that nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever…

A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.

Copied!