Was there one among them to put himself in my place, to feel how removed I was then from him I seemed to be, and in that remove what strain, as of hawsers about to snap? It’s possible. Yes, I was straining towards those spurious deeps, their lying promise of gravity and peace, from all my old poisons I struggled towards them, safely bound. Forgetful of my mother, set free from the act, merged in this alien hour, saying, Respite, respite.

— Samuel Beckett, Molloy