The pale gloom of rainy days was better fitted to my taste, no, that's not it, to my humour, no, that's not it, I had neither taste nor humor, I lost them early on. Perhaps, what I mean is that the pale gloom, etc., hid me better, without its being on that account particularly pleasing to me.
(It's better to create than destroy what's unnecessary)
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Molloy - pg. 30
Labels: Samuel Beckett
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