هفتصد و سی و هفت

امروز فقط نقلِ قولم. از آقای بکت که در کتابخانه پیِ گودو بودم که نبود و به جاش دستم به این کتاب خورد و چه بسا از اول این کتاب را می خواسته ام بس که عجیب و خوب است این کتابِ یادداشت هایی برای هیچ.

Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me? Answer simply, someone answer simply. It's the same old stranger as ever, for whom alone accusative I exist, in the pit of my inexistence, of his, of ours, there's a simple answer. It's not with thinking he'll find me, but what is he to do, living and bewildered, yes, living, say what he may...

An instant and then they close again, to look inside the head, to tray and see inside, to look for me, to look for someone there, in the silence of quite a different justice, in the toils of that obscure assize where to be is to be guilty.

"Texts for Nothing" - Samuel Beckett