
[0717] anyone else, whis [place = overwritten] ch was perhaps a slight exaggeration, for I must have
needed my mother, otherwise why this frenzy of wanting to get to her?
[0718] That is one of the many reasons why I avoid speaking as far as possible.
[0719] For I always say either too much or too little, which is a terrible thing
for a man with a passion for truth like mine.
[0720] And I shall not abandon
this subject, to which I shall probably never have occasion to return,
with such a storm blowing up, without making this curious observation,
that it often happened to me, before I gave up speaking for good, to
think I had said too little when in fact I had said too much and in fact
to have said too little when I thought I had said too much.
[0721] I mean that
on reflexion, in the long run rather, my verbal profusion turned out to
be dearth and inversely.
[0722] So time sometimes turns the tables.
[0723] In other
words, or perhaps another thing, whatever I said was never enough and
always too much.
[0724] Yes, I was never silent, whatever I said I was never
silent.
[0725] Divine analysis that conduces thus to knowledge of yourself,
and of your fellow men, if you happen to have any.
[0726] For to say I needed
no-one was not to say too much, but an infinitesimal part of what I
should have said, could not have said, should never have said.
[0727] Need of
my mother!
[0728] No, there were no words for the want of need in which I was
perishing.
[0729] So that she, I mean Sophie, must have told me the reasons
why I needed her, since I had dared to disagree.
[0730] And perhaps if I took
the trouble I might find them again, but trouble, thanks very much, some
other time.
[0731] And I've had enough of this boulevard, it must have been a
boulevard, of all these righteous men, these guardians of the peace, all
these feet and hands, stamping, clutching, clenched in vain, these
bawling men [place = overwritten] ouths that never bawl out of season, this sky beginning to drip,
enough of being abroad, trapped, visible.
[0732] Someone was poking the dog,
- Segments
Molloy © 2016 Samuel Beckett Digital Manuscript Project.
Editors: Magessa O'Reilly, Dirk Van Hulle, Pim Verhulst and Vincent Neyt