Don’t fret, Molloy, we’re coming.

It is only irritating to think one would like to be somewhere else. Here we are now.

— John Cage

For it was not so bad being in the forest, I could imagine worse, and I could have stayed there till I died, unrepining, yes, without pining for the light and the plain and the other amenities of my region. For I knew them well, the amenities of my region, and I considered that the forest was no worse. And it was not only no worse, to my mind, but it was better, in this sense, that I was there. That is a strange way, is it not, of looking at things. Perhaps less strange than it seems. For being in the forest, a place neither worse nor better than the others, and being free to stay there, was it not natural I should think highly of it, not because of what it was, but because I was there. For I was there. And being there I did not have to go there, and that was not to be despised . . . .

I longed to go back into the forest. Oh not a real longing. Molloy could stay, where he happened to be.

— Samuel Beckett, Molloy

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