She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.
Samuel Beckett (2007). “I Can't Go On, I'll Go On: A Samuel Beckett Reader”, p.96, Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
