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“He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.”
― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”
― T.S. Eliot

“God damn you to hell, Sir, no, it's indecent, there are limits! In six days, do you hear me, six days, God made the world. Yes Sir, no less Sir, the WORLD! And you are not bloody well capable of making me a pair of trousers in three months!'
'But my dear Sir, my dear Sir, look at the world and look at my TROUSERS!”
― Samuel Beckett, Endgame

“What a fine weather today! Can’t choose whether to drink tea or to hang myself.”
― A.P. Chekhov