That ‘writers write’ is meant to be self-evident. People like to say it. I find it is hardly ever true. Writers drink. Writers rant. Writers phone. Writers sleep. I have met very few writers who write at all.
Renata Adler - Speedboat
Beckett was addicted to silences, and so was Joyce; they engaged in conversations which consisted often of silences directed towards each other, both suffused with sadness, Beckett mostly for the world, Joyce mostly for himself.

Robert Ellman

thank you Time’s Flow Stemmed

Gisèle Freund - Samuel Beckett sitting on his desk

Gisèle Freund - Samuel Beckett sitting on his desk

Und der Alptraum sprach zu mir: du wirst wachsen.
Die Bilder des Schmerzes und des Labyrinths hinter dir lassen,
und du wirst vergessen.
Doch damals wäre wachsen ein Verbrechen gewesen.
Ich bin hier, sagte ich, mit den romantischen Hunden,
und hier werde ich bleiben.
Roberto Bolaño - Die romantischen Hunde. Gedichte.
veröffentlicht in der Ausgabe SINN UND FORM 5/2014
René Magritte - Natural Encounters

René Magritte - Natural Encounters

True enough, the country is calm. Calm as a morgue or a grave, would you not say?
Václav Havel  in a letter to Gustáv Husák, Czech communist president 1975-1989
by Ivan KynclThe symbol of the human rights initiative Charta 77 on a house wall in Prague around 1977

by Ivan Kyncl
The symbol of the human rights initiative Charta 77 on a house wall in Prague around 1977

Vielleicht verhält es sich ja so, wie kürzlich erwogen wurde - dass nämlich das Gehirn eine Bestätigung braucht, ob wir noch am Leben sind, bevor es sich der Mühe unterzieht, wach und bei Bewusstsein zu bleiben.
António Damásio aus “Descartes’ Irrtum”
Henri Cartier-Bresson

Henri Cartier-Bresson

He thrust his hand at me. I have an idea I told him once again to get out of my way. I can still see the hand coming toward me, pallid, opening and closing. As if self-propelled. I do not know what happened then. But a little later, perhaps a long time later, I found him stretched on the ground, his head in a pulp. I am sorry I cannot indicate more clearly how this result was obtained, it would have been something worth reading.
Samuel Beckett, from 'Molloy'
Michaël Borremans  (Belgian, b. 1963), Automat (I), 2008

Michaël Borremans (Belgian, b. 1963), Automat (I), 2008

There we were - demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance - and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. Don’t you see?! We’re actors - we’re the opposite of people!
Tom Stoppard - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Edward Hopper -  Solitary Figure in Theatre, 1904

Edward Hopper -  Solitary Figure in Theatre, 1904

I imagine Michael distrusted resorting to words of lofty emotion, which in their race to lower the most ornate wreathes before a catastrophic event, can irreparably damage that incubus of silence, in which some truth may shyly be forming.
last line of a wonderful short tribute to W.G. Sebald  by Will Stone, published here
W.G. Sebald , photography by Jillian Edelstein (with thanks to night rpm)

W.G. Sebald , photography by Jillian Edelstein (with thanks to night rpm)