James Joyce: His Writing Is

I Have Nothing But Wastes And Wilds Of Self-translation Before Me For Many Miserable Months To Come.

I Lay Down Across Her With My Face In Her Breasts And My Hand On Her. We Lay There Without Moving. But Under Us All Moved, And Moved Us, Gently, Up And Down, And From Side To Side.

Don't Look For Meaning In The Words. Listen To The Silences.

Let Us Do Something, While We Have The Chance! ... Let Us Make The Most Of It, Before It Is Too Late! Let Us Represent Worthily For One The Foul Brood To Which A Cruel Fate Consigned Us!

Estragon: What About Hanging Ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd Give Us An Erection.